Poem Review: Winter Collection
I love snowy winters. Since COVID happened, I yearn to get back to the snowy climes. But I am still in Chennai, a tropical city, whose cold is at best mildly pleasant weather. (Imagine the summers.)
I am, therefore, winter blind — bereft of the experience. But, as they say, if one sense is deprived, the other senses kick in. For me, poetry gives me that extra sensory perception of this magical season.
I dream about the snow and clear stary nights, the white blanket outside, while I snuggle under the warmth of my bed and read a book, with hot chocolate waiting nearby. One sip, now and then. Just like the first poem.
The poets span 3 continents — Asia, North America, and Europe, and are unified by the winter theme. But their poetry is contrasting and brings different hues to the white winter snow.
a) George L Thomas — talks about what his townfolks go through in his poem ‘On a mid-December Night’
b) Bishal Dey feels stoic yet sluggish on a winter morning, as captured by his poem ‘Winter Morning’
c) Richard Lacoursiere CD portrays vivid imagery of the world that looks black in the deepening white snow, and how he loves these contrasting colors in his poem ‘Black and White’. He has consented to share his photograph to go with the poem ( a big bonus treat for the readers)
d) David Shapiro-Zysk presents a portrait of falling snow in the poem ‘Snow flakes’.
The poems bring a sense of warmth to our souls and wrap us in a blanket of coziness on a winter night.
Poem 1: On A Mid-December Night
Blustery wind howls through the street
And the chill in the air has bite
There’s even the chance of snowflakes
On a mid-December nightThere are ruddy cheeks and noses
And woollen scarves wrapped up tight
Thoughts are always aimed homeward
On a mid-December nightThere are mugs of steaming cocoa
And snuggles by the firelight
Winter is certainly in full swing
On a mid-December nightThere are extra blankets and socks for bed
And water bottles warmed just right
It’s important to keep the cold at bay
On a mid-December night-George L Thomas
Commentary on Poem 1:
The scene is set on a mid-December night. The Christmas mood is just setting in. The snow is falling and the firewood in the hearth is crackling quietly, effusing warmth inside the poet’s home.
“December’s immaculate coldness feels warm. December feels like blood.”
― Zinaida Gippius
December is the first proper cold month of winter. Some may argue about November. But December is always. Not almost — but always. The winter is immaculate, even perfect on a mid-December night.
Blustery wind howls through the street
And the chill in the air has bite
There’s even the chance of snowflakes
On a mid-December night
The winter is in full dance across the city. The strong and ‘blustery’ wind howls its presence in waves like a wolf on the prowl. Not a time to be on the streets. The wind not only howls but also its chill bites.
Does it sound dreary? The poet drops in a line that brings a smile to our faces. ‘Snowflakes’ ( just scroll to the fourth poem, and you will understand) are my favorite thing. They are magic. There is a chance of snowflakes that night.
A contrasting concoction of the beauty and the dangers of winter — all on display on a mid-December night.
There are ruddy cheeks and noses
And woollen scarves wrapped up tight
Thoughts are always aimed homeward
On a mid-December night
The skin and the bones feel the chill. The nose sniffs the cold and the skin turns crimson, mainly around the cheeks and noises. The humans braving the squally, biting climate, and walking to or from their homes tightly wrap themselves in woolen scarves. Beyond the mittens, socks, warmers, and layers of clothing, scarves embrace them with the extra warmth that they want to feel as they tread their way home. The scarf is the piece of home wrapped around the bodies, as the thoughts in the minds are already home-abound.
There are mugs of steaming cocoa
And snuggles by firelight
Winter is certainly in full swing
On a mid-December night
The evening arrivals at home yearn for something that slips down their throat and warms their souls. What better than mugs of steaming cocoa? The snuggles indicate the closeness of those at home, deriving coziness from the cuddly warmth beside the fire hearth. The poet vividly presents the essence of love through the drinks and cuddles.
There are extra blankets and socks for bed
And water bottles warmed just right
It’s important to keep the cold at bay
On a mid-December night
The walk back in the chilly and squally weather, the cups of cocoa, and the snuggles by the fireside, all fill up the activity list for the late evening. Now, it is time for bed. The winter chill seeps into the bedroom too. Extra blankets, socks, and a warm water bottle are needed to stay comfortable under the onset of the harsh weather.
“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”
― Edith Sitwell
The poet dips into a simple mid-December night but evokes vivid feelings of coziness, warmth, and comfort through various measures.
Poem 2: Winter Morning
I am sitting beside the road
On a cold winter morning
It is just me and the winter fogI am in absolute silence
Although within me there’s a stream of memories
I am neither good nor bad
I am just there
Only meThe cold atmosphere brushes against my nose
Making it red
I am sitting there not waiting for anyone
Not wanting to go anywhereI am with myself
I feel bliss at this very moment
I do not need to explain
I do not need to answer
I am joyfully being~Bishal Dey
Commentary on Poem 2:
Have you jumped out of your bed, walked out of the door, and embraced the cold fog on a winter morning? The blast of the cold as the blanket of warmth recedes and falls at your doorstep, welcomes you as the only company of the foggy cold outside in the morning. No other living being is around.
I am sitting beside the road
On a cold winter morning
It is just me and the winter fogI am in absolute silence
Although within me there’s a stream of memories
I am neither good nor bad
I am just there
Only me
A human’s mind is drowned in myriad thoughts. In a sense, he is never alone. There is a stream of memories that floods his mind. The poet is sitting beside the road, a road that has carried many people to their destinations. Yet, on that cold winter morning, it is empty.
A road is a beaten path, and human-made. It cuts through the wilderness, which is Nature’s untamed form. Like the road meeting the wild, the poet is alone meeting the white season of the year.
Only the ‘winter fog’ accompanies the poet. The winter fog sets an unclear scene outside, but inside, the author is clear about his character — he is neither good nor bad, implying that he is just being there, like nature.
There is a mahavaakya, a great saying called ‘Tatvamasi’, in Sanskrit. Tatvamasi means ‘That thou art’ means the essence of the individual dissolves and permeates into the universe ( Brahman). The poet feels a high sense of oneness and belonging in the winter fog.
The cold atmosphere brushes against my nose
Making it red
I am sitting there not waiting for anyone
Not wanting to go anywhere
There is a higher order of sense prevailing in the poet’s mind. The physical tryst of his skin with the chill of winter results in a ‘red nose’, probably a sign of catching a cold, but the poet is clear that he is staying there, enjoying his spiritual state, ‘without waiting for anyone’ and ‘not wanting to go anywhere,’ entering a stoic state in his mind. He is the observer and the observed.
I am with myself
I feel bliss at this very moment
I do not need to explain
I do not need to answer
I am joyfully being
The solitude and the higher sense of belonging make the author comfortable with himself. He is in a state of ‘bliss’, living firmly in the present. This state of bliss is absolute and within; therefore, there is no need to explain or answer. The poet is.
“For the bliss of the deep abode is not lightly abandoned in favor of the self-scattering of the wakened state,”
― Joseph Campbell, The Hero With a Thousand Faces
The poem has a layered quality. The road represents the journey of human life. The foggy winter morning is the mystery of life itself. Despite the lack of visibility and chilly weather, the poet is at peace with himself. He has found his home, deep inside himself.
Poem 3: Black and White
Winters
Black and white
Veneer
Gives way
To textures
Appreciated
Only by those
Who choose
To see.
A December
Colorado low
Drifts lazily,
Unprejudiced —
Dumping her
Unwanted
Offering
Upon the
Complacent
Citizenry.Black and white,
Uncoloured —
Or so I am
Led to believe,
Black and White
Scream their
Embraced
Truth
To those
Who choose
To see —
The bare
Limbed Forest
Stretched in
Prayer for
Summer wear,
For renewal,
Beneath the
Deepening
Of White.If I was
Truthful,
I prefer
Black and White
Because colours
Are prone
Tell tales
And stretch
The truth.
Black and White
Doesn’t
Get lost
In the crowd.
Black is black
Etched against
The deepening
White
Unhindered
In their
Purity.~Richard Lacoursiere CD
Commentary on Poem 3:
The topic ‘Black and White’ attracted me, of all the winter poems of Richard I have read, because I have a penchant for the colors.
“When you photograph people in color, you photograph their clothes. But when you photograph people in Black and white, you photograph their souls!”
― Ted Grant
The eyes search for answers in the scenery or picture if it is black and white. The contrasting colors reveal the surface and depth of the imagery’s soul. Of all the seasons, winter presents much black-and-white imagery; therefore, to me, it is the most soulful season of them all. One may find this perspective confounding, but the search for the soul starts with seeking and introspection. The depths are discovered in the blankets of snow, for everything that stands out is black, revealing the depth of their souls.
Winters
Black and white
Veneer
Gives way
To textures
Appreciated
Only by those
Who choose
To see.
Winters are a time of introspection. One would love to put the brakes on in life. It is the time to stand and stare. Delve and decipher life, and things around us. However, not all of us can slow down because some of us are not made that way, and some of us choose not to. But for those who choose to see, winter removes its ‘black and white veneer’, revealing the underlying textures.
The verse is profound because I chose to see and then ponder over the words.
Firstly, my perception that black and white represent depth is challenged, for they represent the frontal and surficial veneer.
Second, the beholder has the time to stand and stare, waiting for the black and white curtain to raise.
Third, the textures, probably, representing the undulations of the snowy landscape or the geometric design of the individual snowflakes, are revealed only to the appreciating connoisseur.
The art reveals itself to the aesthete.
A December
Colorado low
Drifts lazily,
Unprejudiced —
Dumping her
Unwanted
Offering
Upon the
Complacent
Citizenry.
While the winter art museum unveils its artifacts for those who choose to see, the other dimension of the season kicks in. A cold wave ( ‘the December Colorado low’) kicks in ubiquitously on the unsuspecting and ‘complacent citizenry.’
“Winter is coming.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones
The Winter is coming, even if it is an unwanted offering — there is no stopping the season. Nature charts its course and is equanimous in its offering, whether it is a bountiful blessing, a devastating disaster, and everything in between. The innocent citizen has her proposals, but the ‘December low’ disposes.
Black and white,
Uncoloured —
Or so I am
Led to believe,
Black and White
Scream their
Embraced
Truth
To those
Who choose
To see —
The bare
Limbed Forest
Stretched in
Prayer for
Summer wear,
For renewal,
Beneath the
Deepening
Of White.
Winter, that white wizard of nature, fickle and artistic, presents a scene, in an evocative way, for the poetic mind to delve into and decipher. There is a time, when all the joy, color, and music go away — the spring, summer, and autumn are distant, deeply buried in the past. The winter, the season where even the birch trees stand stripped without their leaves, is an ‘uncolored season’.
The black and white reflect not only the delving into the retrospective truths, the black ‘limbed forest’ buried under the blanket of ‘ white deepening snow’, but also indicate the time for renewal, that the trees strip naked, ready to a new spring and summer wear.
If I was
Truthful,
I prefer
Black and White
Because colours
Are prone
Tell tales
And stretch
The truth.
Black and White
Doesn’t
Get lost
In the crowd.
Black is black
Etched against
The deepening
White
Unhindered
In their
Purity.
Truth, my friends, stands out. There is no stopping it. The poet believes in truthfulness. Truth is crystal clear, and don’t play truant and decoy like the other colors — they don’t ‘tell tales and stretch the truth.’ It does not get lost in the crowd. It is still in the moving tides of tides, not deterred by darkness, trails like shadows to the light.
“The most colorful thing in the world is black and white, it contains all colors and at the same time excludes all.”
― Vikrmn, 10 Alone
The black here is the naked truth, the stripped view of one’s life. White is the curtain, which represents the future, the sum of all possibilities, for white is all colors represented equally.
Black and white, like truth, is pure. The black and white are what remains when the colors are gone, visible only to those who choose to see. The binary colors represent the search for truth, screaming in the embrace of uncolored contrast. Winter, all in its black-and-white splendor, is the season of truth.
Overall, a thoughtful and evocative poem touching our deep bones of shivering truth, covered by a white snow blanket.
Poem 4: Snowflakes
like a pointillist painting
snowflakes pixelate
the landscape
turn it into a Seurat scene
a little blurry
sometimes a lot
but always
something to see~David Shapiro-Zysk
Commentary on Poem 4:
When an artist is a poet and a poet is an artist, then we see art in poetry and poetry in art.
For starters, the nuance of the art of Pointillism, where the artist uses colored dots in patterns using his brush, creates a magical scene. This art was first ridiculed, but later became a movement called neo-materialism, branching off from mainstream impressionism. Seurat is the father of Pointillist paintings. Using the CMYK technique, the artist mixes colors to create an illusion of continuity from a distance, so that the patterns appear as an image. Vincent Van Gogh’s self-portrait follows this technique.
The nuance of bringing Pointillism and Seurat’s painting is the eye’s ability to connect the dots and form an image. The snowflakes that fall outside are pointillistic — brilliant individual patterns, unique and geometric, yet give the illusion of a white blanket or a vanilla topping on a cake. This is a subtle and deep observation only an artist-poet can make.
The individual flake is a pixel in the artist’s scene, painting the winter landscape with its white pixels. The beauty is that the scene that the poet sees becomes pointillistic art on a Seurat canvas. This is ‘reverse ekphrasis’ and I am stunned to realize that this is my first ever experience with reverse ekphratic poetry, where poetry paints the scene.
The painting is not the only sum of the parts (patterns from the pixels), but ‘sometimes a lot’ — the wholesomeness of the white scenery is overwhelming, even daunting. But when the magic of the pixels reveals itself, the parts become the wholesome magic, and that is always ‘something to see.’
Seurat must be smiling in his grave, given the magic of the pointillist art that the poet’s words spin. The words are the pixels, and the verses become the painting. The cloak and dagger magic. Sigh. Magic.
“Snowflakes are one of nature’s most fragile things, but just look what they can do when they stick together.”
― Vesta M. Kelly
The snowflakes are momentary magic of winter, but when they stick together, they create the magical white of winter in a Seurat way.
The Winter Collection:
Our winter collection starts with a simple mid-December night poem, evoking a sense of coziness and warmth, inside our homes. The scenario changes when a lonely soul confronts the wilderness on a winter morning and finds its peace. The third poem explores the binary colors of winter and exposes the profundity of truth in the season of introspection. Finally, the large white canvas of winter is a pointillistic painting, made of pixellated snowflakes.
“We feel cold, but we don’t mind it, because we will not come to harm. And if we wrapped up against the cold, we wouldn’t feel other things, like the bright tingle of the stars, or the music of the aurora, or best of all the silky feeling of moonlight on our skin. It’s worth being cold for that.”
― Philip Pullman, The Golden Compass
I stand shivering in cold, yet my sense of warmth permeates my soul, as I sip my second mug of cocoa, dreaming of the distant winter in a tropical city, listening to the humming noise of my air conditioner in the humid winter in this tropical city called Chennai.
~Ashok Subramanian © 2023
All poems are copyrights of respective poets. The photographic image in Poem 3 is copyrighted to Richard Lacoursiere CD.
