Spring's Witch

Catrin Welz-Stein

Spring's Witch

I wait out winter plagued by your ghost -

impatient rains whisper, winds rumour you,

caressing the skins at my windows,

speaking into the ears of my chimneys:

She's coming, says the rains.

As before, wind says.

And you do, one March day:

loud and chaotic, incanting your "oh's",

no prim Primavera, no flowers-in-toes,

but cackling as you cast off your clothes.

She's here, say the rains.

As before, wind says.

Your black hair is treacled by the rain.

You raise the wand and you conjure again

whatever love I have for living

from this world's rebirth in spring.

She's leaving, say the rains.

Gone, gone, wind says.

Brian McCabe

“You conjure again whatever love I have for living.” Spring is magic. So if in this poem the rain talks, the wind talks, and chimneys have ears, it shouldn’t surprise us. This is just the kind of thing that goes on in a world where sunlight draws up colour and fragrance from dead black ground. And it's entirely true, feeling the sun on my shoulder as I walk, I think, "There it is again, everyday overflowing magic." 

 

Requiem

Josef Lauer Waldbodenstück

REQUIEM

for Judy

It is early March, each day a little bit greener,

crocus and snowdrops already in bloom, daffodils

sending up the tips of their spears.

When summer comes, we will take you to the river,

trickle your ashes through our fingers.

You will return to us in rain and snow,

season after season, roses, daisies, asters,

chrysanthemums. Wait for us on the other side.

The maple trees let go their red-gold leaves in fall;

in spring, apple blossoms blow to the ground

in the slightest breeze, a dusting of snow.

Let our prayers lift you, small and fine as they are,

like the breath of a sleeping baby. There is never

enough time. It runs through our fingers like water

in a stream. How many springs are enough,

peepers calling in the swamps? How many firefly-spangled

summers? Your father is waiting on the river bank,

he has two fishing poles and is baiting your hook.

Cross over, fish are rising to the surface,

a great blue heron stalks in the cattails,

the morning mist is rising, and the sun is breaking

through. Go, and let our hearts be broken.

We will not forget you.

Barbara Crooker

I know, it's April, not March. That last line is what matters to me today. And yes, "How many springs are enough?". A question I can't answer.

 

When March Blows

Charles Courtney Curran

When March Blows

When March blows, and Monday's linen is shown

On the goose berry bushes, and the worried washer alone

Fights at the soaked stuff, meres and the rutted pools

Mirror the wool-pack clouds, and shine clearer than jewels

And the children throw stones in them, spoil mirrors and clouds

The worry of washing over; the worry of foods,

Brings tea-time; March quietens as the trouble dies.

The washing is brought in under wind-swept clear skies.

Ivor Gurney


I like this poem for several reasons; 1. It's talking about the days when dirty laundry was washed in a stream (mere, or pool), pounded against a rock, and then spread out on the bushes and grass to dry in the sun, 2. I like that word "mere", and that phrase "wool-pack clouds", a modern poem with old words like this has flavour and texture where it would otherwise be flat, and 3. I like how the unsettling March wind is a metaphor for the pressures and worries of a woman (I know it doesn't say it's a woman, but come on, we all know it's a woman doing the laundry and making supper) trying to accomplish the tasks of the day "alone" (an important point). The word "worry" is used three times. Wind worries the linen on the bushes, and the woman is worried by work; but then, "the trouble dies", "the washing is brought in", and the sky is clear. I love that. It's another way of saying "hold on, keep going, this will pass" and as a woman alone with a lot of my work, I need to hear that.


 

I Carried With Me Poems

Leonid Osipovich Pasternak

I Carried With Me Poems

I carried with me poems, poems which spewed out of

  everything; I saw poems hanging from the clotheslines,

  hanging from the streetlamps: I saw poems glowing in

  the bushes, pushing out of the earth as tulips do;

I felt poems breathe in the dark March night like ghosts

  which squared and breathed through the air;

I felt poems brushing the tops of chimneys, brushing by in

  the dark; I felt poems being born in the city, Venuses

  breaking through a shattered sea of mirrors; I felt all the poets of the city straining,

  isolated poets, knowing none of the others, straining;

I felt that some gazed into the March night, looking, and

  finding; 

and others were running down steep streets, seeking,

  and seeking to embrace;

and others stood in empty bookstores turning over pages

  of fellow poets whom they loved but didn't know;

and some pondered over coffee growing cold, in harshly lit

  cafeterias, and gazed at the reflections of the eaters in the

  wall-to-wall mirrors;

some dwelt on what it was to grow old;

some dwelt on love;

some had gone out of time;

some, going out of time, looked back into time, and started;

I felt all of their lives and existences, all with poems at

  their center;

I knew none of these poets;

but I felt these intimations augured well, for me, and for

  poetry;

and my steps grew big, giant steps, I bounded down Parker

  Street;

a tall, taciturn, fast-walking poet's accomplice.

Gail Dusenbery 

I like that line - " I carried with me poems." I have, I do. And yes, there is this line of connection with the poets themselves as well, Are there poems being written and sweated over right now? Poems that I will read and love and carry with me?