You bend your mind to months of hunkering down

December Nightfall   by Alexander Volkov


Here's a breathtaking poem by my friend Maryann Corbett:

A Trenta-Sei of Mixed Feelings at the Early Onset of Winter

with apologies to the shade of John Ciardi

by Maryann Corbett

As the first flakes are caught in streetlight-glimmer,

you gasp: Lovely! Your gasping throat still raw,

the truth grips like catarrh: a Midwest winter

beautiful? Like a left hook to the jaw,

the knuckled, scraping wait for spring’s mud-brown.

You bend your mind to months of hunkering down.

You gasp. Lovely? Your gasping throat still raw,

outward you bound to boisterous winter sports!

Thrill to the wind chill! (When will the fingers thaw?)

Joy! when the frozen stiffs stagger indoors!

(And what in this routine vaguely recalls

old saws that feature banging, and heads, and walls?)

The truth grips like catarrh: a Midwest winter

makes short work of its fairy tale. Snow-white

soils itself on plows. Ice-daggers splinter,

murder-minding the pavement. Ice-dams blight

cold attics. Traffic slogs and spins awry.

The bus slings up a wad of slush at an eye.

Unbeautiful. Like a left hook to the jaw—

except those fugitive seconds of pure peace:

Silence of evening shoveling, when you saw

that famous moonlight. Snow sculpting the trees.

Benches, fences slathered like wedding cakes.

Streetlights. Indigo dark, and the clean flakes.

The knuckled, scraping wait for spring’s mud-brown

craves every beauty bagged in the tangled mind

for cold-comfort. Sucks the marrowbone

of song. Tongues at old poems jarred and brined

like olives. Hears the orchard, shiver-thinned,

keen to itself: the sweep of easy wind….

You bend your mind to months of hunkering down:

You load the chafing dish. You light the sterno.

You heat the buttered rum. You cannot drown

your memory of those stanzas from the Inferno

at the tale-end of the terza rima spell

where Hell is cold. Where cold is the heart of Hell.