Tom Simard

Poetry, Music, and Prose

Archive for the tag “window”

Sketch 7: Winter

I do love winter.

Nothing compares to the sight of snowflakes falling.  The closest I have come to hearing it expressed is:

“Deep beneath the cover of another perfect wonder
Where it’s so white as snow”

In terms of painting, Lucas van Valckenborch’s Winter:

Winter

Growing up, I was fortunate to be surrounded by snow.  There were snowmen to build and snowballs to throw. Forts were constructed and tunnels dug.  We climbed steep hills with our sleds and then sped down them.

In midwinter after snowstorms we’d carefully remove the storm window of our second floor bedroom, and jump, sinking down into the huge drifts of snow.

Hours upon hours were spent outside until your cheeks were red from the biting cold, and you went inside for a cup of hot chocolate to warm up before you went out again.

In the backyard the creek froze over, and we’d clear it with shovels and brooms.  If you kept skating you’d arrive in the city, which even then I knew led to the whole wide world.

Our Mid-Month’s Poet: Matthew Arnold

Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

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