It’s not that I don’t appreciate Wallace Stevens. On an intellectual level, I do. And I actually like “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.” But wow. Tired of winter, tired of cold, looking forward to this forecast next week:
So, when a friend posted a copy of his lovely poem, “The Snow Man,” I couldn’t respond to the loveliness.
Instead, I grumped.
The Dirt Woman
“One must have a mind of winter” Wallace Stevens
I don’t have one. I won’t ever.
Go eat a bag of winter
old man poet, in your suit and tie,
galoshes buckled tight
against the slush and ice
the poor tree limb split from.
What is this January sun
You speak of? I see none.
The only sound is the wind
which hits me right in the bare place
between my turtleneck and long johns.
I can no longer feel my face.
The only thing that gives me hope
is beneath the snow
something alive will grow something red.