You could inscribe a curse on a ribbon of lead and bury it in the ground to lie unread for thousands of years. You could write a letter and keep it in a drawer. Candor is like a skein being produced inside the belly day after day, it has to get itself woven out somewhere. If you are not the free person you want to be you must find a place to tell the truth about that. MorrisĪ poem made for Roni Horn out of the titles of five of her sculptures. Red Lemonade, a Cursor Publishing Communityby Paul W. George Kimball's and John Schulian's At the Fights: American Writers on Boxingby Rochelle Feinsteinĭavid Trinidad's A Fast Life: The Collected Poems of Tim Dlugosby Raphael Rubinstein Salomon Contemporary: 112 Greene Streetby Saul OstrowĬihan Kaan's Halal Pork and Other Storiesby Amiel Alcalay Go without sight,Īnd find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,Īnd is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.Portfolio: From Various Music For a Whileby Elena Berrioloīarbara Henning's Looking Up Harryette Mullen: Interviews on Sleeping with the Dictionary and Other Worksby Patricia Spears Jones To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. Through all the frosty ages you can hear themĪll the long echoes sing the same delight,

They burned beseeching fires all night longĪnd when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake They lighted candles in the winter trees So the shortest day came, and the year died,Īnd everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,Īnd eased his heavy breathing, but still slept. He consigned to the moon-such as she was,įor such a charge, his snow upon the roof,Īnd slept. Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what, Of trees and crack of branches, common things, Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar In clomping off-and scared the outer night, In clomping there, he scared it once again He stood with barrels round him-at a loss. That brought him to that creaking room was age. What kept him from remembering what it was Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand. What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze

Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars, First, I’m burning.Īn Old Man’s Winter Night by Robert Frost Instead of looking upon the solstice with dread, here are six poems to remind you of the enchantment of winter, the magic of the holidays and provide you with warmth and solidarity when the icy winds blow. But poetry reminds us of the beauty in all things, even the frosty, bitterness of December days. As the shortest day of the year approaches, we might not be feeling any love towards the cold, dark of the winter solstice.

If not winter poem