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December 10, 2008


our friends across the pond at the Guardian UK’s book blog are thinking winter.  and what could be better?  versing winter.  hence Adam O’Riordan’s  December 10th post “Perfect weather for poetry” which gathers a pretty good roster of poems about snow.

we find O’Riordan’s post to be the perfect compliment to our Decmeber 10th post linking pleasant weather to increased poetry reading attendance.  the flip side of the coin, apparently, is a bunch of us huddled at home, like an extra in James Joyce’s The Dead,

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

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