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There is a comfort in snow. Even the digitized snow that falls upon this blog harkens a romanticized notion. This has nothing to do with what this post is about, but my mind is circling round snow after a discussion ensued regarding Wallace Stevens’s “The Snow Man” over at ModPo..

Stevens’s captures the essence of being one with our environment. It takes me back to a few years ago when I got lost in a snowy field in the fog no more than a mile from home. At 25 degrees, the quick dog-jog/snowshoe adventure of 20 minutes lasted over an hour. I was not dressed, nor fueled to deal with this duration in these elements. During that time, surrounded in complete white out – Snow Snow Snow everywhere and a thick white air hung heavy laying claim upon my exposed skin. I remembering contemplating what death must feel like if you realize death, realize you shall succumb to Mother Nature’s cold hand. After the initial panic (there Is a feeling of claustrophobia), I decided to try to listen to the sounds around me to guide me home. There was an appreciation of what it must feel like to be blind. Perhaps this is what Stevens is contemplating in that final stanza — giving into the nothing that is everything but really nothing because we are of a winter mind.

Considering a poem such as “The Snow Man” humbles a writer who think they know poetry, but is really just a writer of words. That is me, or what I would qualify my meanderings into the creative use of language. With the ego removed, no ideology of grandeur, it is not hard to think about the questions being posed, is there not enough already?

This Enough pertains mainly to poetry, but over at Montevidayo, it goes a bit further into literature in general. When do we reach that limit…is there a limit?

In ModPo, our last topic pertained to Post-Modern, to embrace the non-creative genius. A promotion to take everyday language; to recycle other people’s language; to follow a binary for a poetic outcome. A way to remove ego and represent the language so that the reader can participate. Is it the only way?

I read a blog like Bhanu Kapil’s and I realize there is still innovative writing to be embraced. Contributors/creators of Montevidayo are also of a bent that does not touch the mainstream. So, perhaps it is just the mainstream that should be told Enough…

Wallace Stevens’s never speaks of silence but his words speak a hush. John Cage wrote of silence, performed 4.33 minutes of silence in order to let us hear. We get lost in noise in order to find the quiet. I got lost in fog in order to discover my senses. We listen to a song to unearth the word’s meaning. We leave the melody in order to read the silence. The loops of infinity march on. (this was inspired while thinking about this)

Circles. Nothing is getting done here now. Midnight has ticked past her golden drum and a fog as set the first bit of dew. A frost will not form as we are not quite set to winter. When winter comes, perhaps then an answer. The wind will howl from the north. The geese will finally have found the frozen pond. And I will have ventured out into what was once pastoral prime turned concrete wasteland — the innovators swear white is better than blue. ~

**we shall soon venture further, a link to Professor Filreis KWH series on “mind of winter”.

winter

 

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4 thoughts on “.:.:::..:..:…::::sn..:o

    • silence…we discover so much if we listen to it… rather serendipitous, George, for I just returned from a walk with the pup and was thinking about this poem & the silence ~

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