Snow Day!

It's the third snow day in less than a week, here in Missouri, and I wanted to share the magic.  There's something about snow days that bring out the kid in everyone.  What a weird phenomenon -- first crouching around the radio or T.V. to be extra sure your school or place of business is, indeed, closed; then the celebratory jig or sigh; then the "free" day to spend shoveling, cooking, eating, playing.  Former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins nails the essence of a snow day in his poem bearing the same title.  Enjoy!

 

Snow Day

By Billy Collins

 

Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,

its white flag waving over everything,

the landscape vanished,

not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,  

and beyond these windows

the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost

under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.

In a while, I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,

and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,  

and I will shake a laden branch

sending a cold shower down on us both.

 

But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news

that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed.
the All Aboard Children’s School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with—some will be delighted to hear—

the Toadstool School, the Little School,
Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School  
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and—clap your hands—the Peanuts Play School. 

So this is where the children hide all day,
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence. 

And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,  
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.

Billy Collins, “Snow Day” from Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems (New York: Random House, 2001). Copyright © 2001 by Billy Collins.

 

 



Emily Dickinson & Fanny Fern: Soul Sisters?

EmilyDickinson

Some scholars maintain that Emily Dickinson was familiar with Fanny Fern’s writing.  Frankly, being alive and breathing in the 1850s and 60s meant you were probably familiar with Fanny Fern’s writing.  So, while it is no surprise that Dickinson had likely read Fern’s work and likely discussed that work with others, less is known, of course, about Dickinson’s possible poetic reaction to Fern’s often provocative newspaper columns and novels.  Some scholars have posited that Dickinson might have penned her poem “I’m Wife” after reading Fern’s work, especially given Fern’s staunch views about (traditional 1850s-style) marriage being “the hardest way to get a living.”  On the other hand, Dickinson was quite the forward thinker herself and perhaps didn’t need a bit of outside influence to inspire her artistry.  Take a look yourself.  Do you see any Fanny Fern in Emily Dickinson’s poem “I’m Wife”? 

I'm "wife" -- I've finished that --
That other state --
I'm Czar -- I'm "Woman" now --
It's safer so --

How odd the Girl's life looks
Behind this soft Eclipse --
I think that Earth feels so
To folks in Heaven -- now --

This being comfort -- then
That other kind -- was pain --
But why compare?
I'm "Wife"! Stop there!

Compare Dickinson’s poem to Fern’s famous lines in the Olive Branch on Aug. 28, 1852:

Fanny Fern

"Never mind back aches, and side aches, and head aches, and dropsical complaints, and smoky chimneys, and old coats, and young babies! Smile! It flatters your husband. He wants to be considered the source of your happiness, whether he was baptized Nero or Moses! Your mind never being supposed to be occupied with any other subject than himself, of course a tear is a tacit reproach. Besides, you miserable little whimperer, what have you to cry for? A-i-n-t y-o-u m-a-r-r-i-e-d? Isn’t that the summon bonum—the height of feminine ambition? You can’t get beyond that! It’s the jumping-off place! You’ve arriv!—got to the end of your journey! Stage puts up there! You’ve nothing to do but retire on your laurels, and spend the rest of your life endeavoring to be thankful that you are Mrs. John Smith! Smile! you simpleton!”

"The Colonel"

Okay, I know this is the teacher in me coming out, but have you read Carolyn Forché's poem "The Colonel"? It is stunning, and that is putting things mildly. I promise you will never be the same again after this -- it's that good. Westminster College had the good fortune to have Carolyn Forché on campus last year for a reading. She was marvelous -- witty, warm and brilliant. She read this to us then and I am still haunted by it. Here it is for you to enjoy. And, if you're ready for an even bigger treat, click on the link below and hear the poet herself read her masterpiece.


The Colonel
By Carolyn Forché

WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD is true. I was in his house. His wife carried
a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went
out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the
cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over
the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English.
Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On
the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had
dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of
bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief
commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was
some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot
said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed
himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say
nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries
home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like
dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one
of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water
glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As
for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck them-
selves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last
of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some
of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the
ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.
May 1978

To hear this poem, go to: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180106