No, it isn’t snowing here. I wish… Well, perhaps not right now, tonight being “my” Canterville Ghost’s second first night* – but still.
Not that I have many hopes, actually: it never snows in my corner of the world. It used to, but it almost never does it anymore… I did catch a rather epic snowfall in Bologna a few weeks ago – but right here? It hasn’t happened in years, much less in December – when, by rights, tradition and sentimental fallacy, it should snow cats and dogs.
Ah well, one is left to find what consolation can be found in small things: the WordPress snowfall on one’s blog, snowglobes – and, of course, poetry.
What about Louis MacNeice, startled by a sudden snowfall into marvelling at the sheer richness and complexity of the world?
The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.
And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes–
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of your hands–
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.
Lovely, isn’t it? Happy December, o Readers!
* Although there are precedents… I’ll tell you about it, someday.
Davide Mana said:
Well, here where I am we had a little snow last night.
More fuss than poetry, really.
la Clarina said:
Ah, no – that is kind of disappointing. I like my snowfalls to be of the deep and lasting sort. Not that I’ve had any in the last… I don’t know – twelve years? Fifteen? And it’s been even longer since my last white Christmas… Ah well.