I really liked reading this. For some strange reason I thought of Emily Dickinson, not really because it made me think of her writing, but because I think it's something she would like to read. (I dont talk to dead people i swear), but I've studied her recently and she likes reading things that "boggle the mind", and this isn't necessarily confusing, but it makes me think. Almost every line makes me think. I love that.
At the beginning I'm reminded of a clock struggling to work during winter. My favorite lines are definitely:
"And where idle living
Haunts the dead"
Fantastic stuff... it's interesting, comparing winter to spring and not winter to summer... I liked that. Winter merges into the spring, that's where the transition takes place. One thing i noticed was your use of capitalization. I'm guessing it was on purpose, and I like the variations. Anyways, it was a really good piece to stop by and read. And I really liked WolfStar's thoughts. Hope you don't thing I'm an idiot from my odd comment
A really neat and nifty poem ... this is original (it is very, very easy to write "original" poetry that is pure crap, folks do it all the time) but THIS is original and really quite excellent ... I love it, really love it ... bravo ... bravo ... bravo ... michael
I think this is the first piece of yours that I have really completely enjoyed for some time.
I definitely feel that that is true, that it often in our cold and bitter days that we poets create our best works. Poets have to be that way. Stability is not in our nature. Brilliance requires at least a little madness, for the sound of mind would not see the grotesque connections so evident to a poet.
In that respect, the bitterness of winter is perhaps preferable to spring. We may feel most alive when we are miserable; suddenly we must examine life, we must find reasoning and justification for our pain and for our existence.
Personally I have found that misery and sadness are all that ever move me to write. It is only in that moment of pain and suffering that I seek to release myself, to express myself in words. It is the extremes of life that often give us the inspiration to write, and in that I fully agree with you.
Writing with passion comes in glimpses and windows of time. Even the best of writers cannot write in every season of being. We live in one season, and we write as if we were dying, and then more seasons pass without a single word from us.
But what happens, and what you seemed to touch on in the seventh stanza, is that we often try to stay in one season, prolonging that feeling and the sudden sight, even if it means we must relive the pain over and over because that moment is that sudden rush of clarity and vision.
Needless to say, this is a fave. More on the stanza with spring later.
this is a short comment... i liked this poem - duh - but more cuz i feel like its ur writing but there's a slight touch of different...there's something more special about this ... other then the fact that u gave an excellent description to what winter is...i find the first to verses a bit weird, maybe the transition or the most obvious answer: me ... hehe just to close off, my favorite line...hmm this is hard..im gonna go for a good one..hehe What then, But to salute a new season Where dead trees tell old tales That Winter is still bitter
Existence of course really certifies nothing except existence. Whether we evolved or were created, both sources lead to our existence. You are here for a number of springs, enjoy them all. You are here for a number of winters. enjoy them equally. Winter of course doesn't do much destroying either. Winter is sort of like life in stasis. It is actually in summer and autumn that the destruction takes place, when bacteria and fungi break down organic tissues in the warmth and moisture. Thus far I have simply not been swayed by your argument. As for the poetics of this piece, it is way better than most. It has a serious and sad tone, but is elegant and not over the top with imagery. I like the machinery of the mind bits in the first stanzas. Sometimes it is almost painful to be aware of one's own ratiocination.