I have struggled with poetry all my life. I don’t really like it. Don’t really need it. Nevertheless, my teachers in high school and college seemed insistent that I familiarize myself–but I think it is basically bogus. I can make anything poetic. And if anything can be poetry, why does the word “poetry” even exist?
Watch:
“Poetry”
by
–cps Fairbanks–
I have struggled
With poetry
All
My
Life.
I don’t really like
It.
Don’t really need
It–
Poetry.
See? Poetry. And yesterday when I was tending my nephew, I happened upon a collection of Emily Dickinson’s “masterpieces,” just the sort of thing my English teacher sister would stow away in her son’s diaper bag. Fully prepared to mock her every word, I opened the book and was shocked to find myself actually relating to a poem she’d written about snow:
“It Sifts from Leaden Sieves”
by Emily Dickinson
It sifts from Leaden Sieves --It powders all the Wood.It fills with Alabaster WoolThe Wrinkles of the Road --
It makes an Even FaceOf Mountain, and of Plain --Unbroken Forehead from the EastUnto the East again -- It reaches to the Fence --It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces --It deals Celestial Vail To Stump, and Stack -- and Stem --A Summer's empty Room --
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,Recordless, but for them-- It Ruffles Wrists of PostsAs Ankles of a Queen --
Then stills its Artisans -- like Ghosts --Denying they have been --
I took these photos last month, long before I ever knew Emily Dickinson had found similar beauty in the snow. Of course it’s good and well to talk about the beauty of the snow now that I don’t have to deal with it. Tomorrow’s high for Phoenix is 66 degrees…If the CanadiansAre lucky--It willGet uptoFreezing. by--cps Fairbanks--
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