As many of you know, I am not a poet or a big fan of poetry. Nothing against poetry itself, but most of it doesn’t speak to me. Yet, this morning when I took my dog for a walk at the local park, I wanted a poem to ring through my head, to capture in words what I saw—the morning sun backlighting trees, casting shadows over the snow and golden hues into the open water of the frozen stream —what I felt—the prickle of cold on my thighs and in my cheeks—and what I heard—birds singing over the rustling trees and babbling brook.
This poem by Claude McKay comes close. The pictures below the poem were taken during my walk. They’re the images I’m trying to capture.
Winter in the Country
Sweet life! how lovely to be here
And feel the soft sea-laden breeze
Strike my flushed face, the spruce’s fair
Free limbs to see, the lesser trees’
Bare hands to touch, the sparrow’s cheep
To heed, and watch his nimble flight
Above the short brown grass asleep.
Love glorious in his friendly might,
Music that every heart could bless,
And thoughts of life serene, divine,
Beyond my power to express,
Crowd round this lifted heart of mine!
But oh! to leave this paradise
For the city’s dirty basement room,
Where, beauty hidden from the eyes,
A table, bed, bureau, and broom
In corner set, two crippled chairs
All covered up with dust and grim
With hideousness and scars of years,
And gaslight burning weird and dim,
Will welcome me . . . And yet, and yet
This very wind, the winter birds
The glory of the soft sunrise,
Come there to me in words.
