We talked a bit about Mark Strand's poem last January, but it deserves more than one look.Also, almost a year later, "Lines for Winter" is reminding me of a question I try to put to myself every once in awhile, regarding honesty: if I weren't going to tell anyone I did this, would I still be doing it? Do I really want to go to the Bach concert, or do I want to be able to say I was there?
I'm pretty sure we're all guilty, maybe once per decade, of undeserved self-congratulation, self-promotion, self-aggrandizement. Maybe it's like tobacco, and we should cut back on it.
Isn't Strand's poem about that, at least a bit, maybe a little sideways? In any case, I welcome comments on "Lines for Winter" or other, related ideas.
Last January, Barbaro wrote here in visitor comments: "You and your poems keep trying to make me hate winter, but I won't do it. So desperately do I love it that I got mildly depressed today because I did notice afternoons clawing their way back, which means those beautiful dark white days near the solstice are behind us for a whole other year. For all its intensity of cold and snow and impatience, Februrary can't touch that sweet spot in late December."
As I walked yesterday and visualized it again today, I realize I failed to endorse that view with sufficient enthusiasm. Hence these photos.
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