[W.F. Lantry]

I'm from San Diego, so I object to the cold and snow here. But I've always been fond of Simic:

http://www.nybooks.com/blogs/nyrblog...-philosophers/

Thanks,

Bill

[Cally Conan-Davies]

Bill,

You could not realise the relief you have brought for a few minutes with these thoughts about cold and snow.

I am in tropical north Queensland, and we are all cut-off from the rest of Australia. And the waters are falling from the sky and rising from the rivers, flash-flooding and killing. 8 dead, 72 missing, and more flash floods expected.

And the heat, the humidity, the smell, and the sandflies and mosquitoes are horrendous.

This is just terrible. I can't believe what my eyes are seeing. From years of drought to managing floodgates to prevent the devastating damage if the dams burst.

And our Janet is right in the middle of it, where the incessant rains are falling. I am just above it, and can't get anywhere because all roads are impassable.

I would give anything to feel cold for a moment, and for everything to freeze. And for a moment, it did, when I read the piece you posted.

Thanks, Bill.

Cally

[David Rosenthal]

Cally,

That sounds horrible. It doesn't seem to be getting much media coverage here. Your and Janet's reports are the most I have heard. Stay above it let Janet know we are thinking of her.

David R.

(Sorry for the diversion, Bill.)

[Cally Conan-Davies]

Thanks, David. We are feeling the destructive force of water. Things are grim.

Perhaps others will add some winter tales here, to keep me cool and dreaming! The last paragraph of the Simic piece made me cry - but I stopped myself. No more water.

I find the Simic piece interesting alongside the review of Wilbur's book on another thread. Does Wilbur live and write in a cold place? Do writers write from a cold place, no matter what climate zone they live in?

I love thinking about, and being in, winter.

Cally

[Ed Shacklee]

Cally,

Here's a kind of winter poem, if I'm translating the title right, by Elizabeth Bishop:



Cirque d’Hiver

Across the floor flits the mechanical toy,
fit for a king of several centuries back.
A little circus horse with real white hair;
His eyes are glossy black.
He bears a little dancer on his back.

She stands upon her toes and turns and turns.
A slanting spray of artificial roses
is stitched across her skirt and tinsel bodice.
Above her head she poses
another spray of artificial roses.

His mane and tail are straight from Chirico.
He has a formal, melancholy soul.
He feels her pink toes dangle on his back
along the little pole
that pierces both her body and her soul

and goes through his, and reappears below,
under his belly, as a big tin key.
He canters three steps, then he makes a bow,
canters again, bows on one knee,
canters, then clicks and stops, and looks at me.

The dancer, by this time, has turned her back.
He is the more intelligent by far.
Facing each other rather desperately –
his eye is like a star –
we stare and say, “Well, we have come this far.”

XXX- Elizabeth Bishop

[Mary Meriam]

Well, I'm snowed-in, Cally. Who knows how many days or weeks I'll be snowed in. It's bleak.