Re. Robert Bly and F. Scott Fitzgerald: their snow

At a time of human-caused global warming, the connection between Christmas and snow is based largely on nostalgia.  But unless you live south of the equator, Christmas is a winter holiday and winter gestures towards snow, even though many places in the northern hemisphere will not receive snow at Christmas.  In fact, in many of these places, if snow falls at all during winter it's freakish, city-stopping occurrence.  Yet there remains a strong desire to see snow at this time of year.  And not just any snow either: not the snow that you must shovel from your driveway, not the snow that makes your feet feel wet and cold, not the snow that turns to brown slush at the curbside--but a pastoral, picturesque snow, the kind of snow that, say, blankets a meadow in some not-too-distant countryside. The snows of yesteryear, to borrow a phrase from Villon (albeit via translation).

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The other day I was leafing through a poetry anthology and came across Robert Bly's 1967 poem "Looking at New-Fallen Snow from a Train."  I hadn't read it before and it made a strong impression on me.  The poem's title sets the scene and in the opening lines the poet expands on the scene: 

Snow has covered the next line of tracks, 
And filled the empty cupboards in the milkweed pods; 
It has stretched out on the branches of weeds,
And softened the frost-hills, and the barbed-wire rolls
Left leaning against a fencepost---
It has drifted onto the window ledges high in the peaks of barns. 

The poem is somewhat pastoral, albeit a compromised pastoral: the train itself and the barbed- wire are signs of industrialization.  And then the poem jumps the track, so to speak, as suddenly Bly imagines a man who "throws back his head, gasps/ And dies," and "A salesman [who] falls, striking his head on the edge of the counter."  I must admit that I can't account for the sudden switch from one set of images to the other, except to say that this might be a kind of "Deep Image" tactic to rattle our expectations. 

In the poem's third section we return again to the scenes flashing by in the train's window.  We see the snow as peaks on rotten fence posts, as sloping down towards the slough, as lining the steps of a ladder leaning against a building.  This is a return to the pastoral, until we reach the final line of the section: an image of the snow resting "on transformer boxes held from the ground forever in the center of cornfields."  And on that note, the poem changes direction once more: 

A man lies down to sleep.
Hawks and crows gather around his bed. 
Grass shoots up between the hawks' toes. 
Each blade of grass is a voice.
The sword by his side breaks into flame. 

Although I can't explain what's going in the poem's final lines, I can at least say that they remind me of an old Christmas carol - not sung very often - sometimes called "The Corpus Christi Carol,"  sometimes called "Down in Yon Forest."  There are several versions of the song, as is often the case with true folk songs.   Here are the lyrics from the version recorded by Bruce Cockburn on his wonderful album, simply titled Christmas.  The lyrics, which are traditional, can be found on the all-things-Cockburn website http://cockburnproject.net/: 

Down in yon forest be a hall
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Tis coverleted over with purple and pall
Sing all good men for the new born baby

Oh, in that hall is a pallet-bed
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Tis stained with blood like cardinal-red
Sing all good men for the new born baby

And at that pallet is a stone
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
On which the virgin did atone
Sing all good men for the new born baby

Under that hall is a gushing flood
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
- From Christ's own side, 'tis water and blood
Sing all good men for the new born baby

Beside that bed a shrub-tree grows
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
Since he was born it blooms and blows
Sing all good men for the new born baby

Oh, on that bed a young squire sleeps
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
His wounds are sick and sick, he weeps
Sing all good men for the new born baby

Oh, hail yon hall where none can sin
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Cause it's gold outside and silver within
Sing all good men for the new born baby 
    

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Although the go-to novelist at this time of year is, of course, Charles Dickens, I like to turn to the end of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby to reread the portion where Nick Carraway remembers travelling back home by train to the American Mid-west at Christmastime. The passage is rich with nostalgia, with the sense of home-going, and rich with snow. FSF writes: 

"When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again." 

My parka, my friend

The weather has been quite wintry lately.  The temperatures have been in the double digits below zero for at least a couple weeks now.  For northern Manitoba, however, that's not surprising.  Now that we're stepping into December, it will simply continue to be cold and stay cold.  And so I once again to reacquaint myself with an old friend--my parka. 

My parka is nothing fancy.  It's not one of those grand Canada Goose jackets.  It's just a serviceable number that I picked up at an Eddie Bauer store in Saskatoon one February (thus getting it at a sale price).  It's black and it still looks new-ish, though it's seen me through roughly seven winters now.  And though the zippers are starting to go (they're becoming rather temperamental about zipping and unzipping), I think it will see me through another winter.  

But my parka is more than just a coat: from November til April, it becomes my home base. Like Tom Baker's coat in the Dr. Who series from the 1970s, my parka is full of pockets with a seemingly unending amount of storage space.  And I put all sorts of good, useful things in those pockets: naturally my wallet and keys, but also a pen or two, a notebook, matches, a handkerchief or two, a Swiss army knife, a small flashlight, binoculars - maybe even a bird guidebook - and a slender thermos-bottle. When I'm travelling my passport slides into a pocket effortlessly, as does a spare set of glasses or sunglasses.  I can tuck a sandwich or granola bar easily away into one of my pockets.  And when I'm not wearing my toque or gloves, they can be shoved down into the pockets as well.  My world seems to revolve around my parka and the things I put into it.  

I take my parka all over the place, too.  All across northern Manitoba and down to Winnipeg.  I bring it with me when I'm snow-shoeing or taking a quick run to pick up some groceries at the Northern Store.  It's been with me in Saskatchewan.  It's been with me in Labrador.  It's been with me in Ontario.  I wear it at Christmas. I wear it at New Year's.  I wear it (often) at Easter, too.  It has been a kind of faithful and constant companion--like a good old-fashioned side-kick, like a good old-fashioned dog. 

How it begins (again)

During my first year in northern Manitoba - back when I was living in Flin Flon - I recall being told that when it snows after Hallowe'en, it stays.  The snow stays and that's winter.   And it can come very quickly. 

Since last Thursday winter came and took hold.  At first it was picturesque, with a few flakes glinting in the sunlight.  On Friday morning Norway House was an image of Christmascard pastoral: every treebranch lined with soft snow.  Soft snow softly falling.  But by Friday afternoon the wind came--hard, fierce and sharp.  The lake began to freeze.  And that sharp wind stayed all weekend, freezing the river that flows past our home. The snow is now ankledeep in places.

This is how it begins. And this is how it will stay, staying with us until April.  And I admit I don't look forward to month after month of wondering, Will the car start? Months of frozen fingertips and cold ears.  But all the same, there is, to my mind, something calming and peaceful about winter. 

Re. Cheever's "The World of Apples"

When I was 19 years old I read The Letters of John Cheever. I don't believe that I'd read any of Cheever's fiction at that point, but I suppose I'd come to believe that the collection of his letters was an important thing to read.  We do that sort of thing when we're young, don't we? We come to believe that a book or an author is worthwhile, important, valuable, and so we doggedly, painstakingly read--reading every word thoughtfully, thoroughly, dutifully. 

However, some real good came of it.  My 19 year-old-self was right about Cheever. I must have intuited something about him when I picked up that book of his letters--for Cheever is a good writer. And every time I read one of his stories, I'm deeply impressed.  Just the other day I read Cheever's "The World of Apples," about an aging American poet living in Italy, and was moved by the story's quiet power.   It's one of those stories in which every word seems to be well-placed, perfectly placed, and every scene beautifully rendered, building towards a powerful - though understated - conclusion. 

Re. H.P. Lovecraft's "The Shadow over Innsmouth"

As Hallowe'en approaches, I enjoy reading something festively macabre.  This year I've been reading H.P. Lovecraft's novella "The Shadow over Innsmouth." And I've been enjoying it immensely.  One thing that strikes me about H.P.L.: yes, he over-writes, but he knows how to over-write, which is a real skill, a real talent.  

To read the long story, please see: 

http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/soi.aspx

The view from here

After the events of this past week - the shooting on Parliament Hill being large in my mind - plus international events - the spread of the Ebola virus also being large in mind - I can't help but feel particularly lucky to be where I am. 

Today in Norway House it is grey and misty. The snow that I wrote about earlier this month has melted away and the temperature is relatively mild.  The trees and shrubs, now bare, clustered leaflessly together, look like woven baskets.   As I walked back and forth from the college where I teach, only a few ravens were out and about, lazily coasting over the treetops. 

It is, in a word, peaceful.  And that's nothing to take lightly.  

How it begins

It takes more than one swallow to make a summer, the saying goes.  And it takes more than one snowfall to make a winter.  On Sunday, I was willing to say that it was just one of those early snowfalls that one gets in northern Manitoba in October.  A snowfall that would come and would go, sloppily melting away as the temperature crept back up over zero.  But now I'm not so sure: it's snowed off and on throughout Monday and today it's still snowing.  Is this it? Is this winter?  Not all the leaves have fallen yet.   

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A few words from Patrick Lane, from his poem "Winter 1," a peaceful moment taken from his short, fierce book simply titled Winter: 

The generosity of snow, the way it forgives

transgression, filling in the many betrayals

and leaving the world

exactly as it was.