Poetry - The Blizzard -David Hightower
free verse - Americana - Appalachian -
nature - weather - snow
THE BLIZZARD
A howling invades the southern night.
Power lines snap to stillness,
their magic encased in walls of ice.
Clock hands freeze at three a.m.
and phones die in their sleep.
We, who worship the occasional snow,
awaken to too much of the white religion.
I open my door;
the air cracks.
Blue shards of light shatter
into new flurries of cold.
My boots crunch the bones
of the familiar world.
Bare oaks shiver, dust their fingers.
Pines bend double,
freeze into green-lit tunnels.
The old cedar,
its century of brittle symmetry
too proud to bend,
is splintered by the North wind.
Beneath the branches
I discover the cardinal,
its red song scattered in rigid notes
across the indifferent snow
like a heart plucked out,
sacrifice to the winter god.
Superb imagery. Like it. the old cedar too proud to bend. Yes! Thank you for reviewing my poem. I like your style and will track your work.
Cheers, J'nia
As I was reading it, I wondered whether you were referring to a recent storm or that Big Blow we had in March'93 which your area got hit square on with. I guess you do get some serious snowstorms in the Ga. Mtns.
I loved the category you classified it under: Appalachian Americana. I love that stuff - in music: I have recently been getting an influence of that style from the music on MaggiesMusic label which has much Celtic and Americana music - particularly like S.Appalachian folk music.
Later, michael
David,
There's mastery in your precise, ever so evocative imagery and your words and lines sing, truly sing. I particularly liked, "...too much of the white religion" and the riveting final line, "sacrifice to the winter god."
Splendid poetry, splendid!
John
Clock hands freeze at three a.m.
and phones die in their sleep.
We, who worship the occasional snow,
awaken to too much of the white religion...
I open my door;
the air cracks...
My boots crunch the bones
of the familiar world...
... these lines totally electrified me, David, and were so acute and evocative I was frozen to the spot with awe and delight. Such cleanness and clarity - the exactness is stunning and enhances that pristine environment of chill that you depict for us here. Very, very impressed, thank you! :)) xx
Welcome back! long time no see Kemo Sabe, I like very much the metaphores, which were right on the spot! telling us to remember about that "white religion" and boots crunching freezed snow.
A real delight to read.
Georg
Reviewed by Andre Bendavi Benyehu (Reader)
Reviewed on January 14, 2009
I have enjoyed the reading of this composition. A poetic glowing star.
David, your imagery is so truly beautiful...pines bent into green lit tunnels....the description of the cardinal, "like a heart plucked out,
sacrifice to the winter god,"...and my favorite lines..."We, who worship the occasional snow,awaken to too much of the white religion."...AMEN! Just beautiful!
Exceptional poem of imagery and rhythm! I love this poem, and have read it so many times, that page is a bit stained. The image of the red on white is vivid in the end, and the whole atmosphere is both stunning and stilled at the same time. And I love how you've conjured up memories in my own mind of power-outages in the dead of winter, and still with the animals to feed and milk. Their sounds, and every other sound are unusually loud against the stillness of everything frozen--perfectly put in your poem.
Your alliteration herein works powerfully well to incorporate both the startling sounds, and the muffled stillness of the moment. Your s's in the beginning snap and sizzle in the air--in the readers' minds, and then, you continue on with stilled w's and and r's. --I can't put it all here, but for the readers-- check out how he uses repeated sounds to create echoes of what he writes--the crunchy sounds of "c" and "ch"-- the windy "w"-- it's a perfect pattern for how to use this tool in writing.
You've mastered it-- perhaps through some arduous manipulation, but certainly not completely. To write that fluidly, it's got to come mostly intuitively-- and therein lies your genius.
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its red song scattered in rigid notes
across the indifferent snow
like a heart plucked out,
Vivid and symbolic; I find your verses powerfully evocative, David. Thank you. Love and peace,
Regis
Cheers, J'nia
nice...
Art Sun...
I loved the category you classified it under: Appalachian Americana. I love that stuff - in music: I have recently been getting an influence of that style from the music on MaggiesMusic label which has much Celtic and Americana music - particularly like S.Appalachian folk music.
Later, michael
There's mastery in your precise, ever so evocative imagery and your words and lines sing, truly sing. I particularly liked, "...too much of the white religion" and the riveting final line, "sacrifice to the winter god."
Splendid poetry, splendid!
John
Clock hands freeze at three a.m.
and phones die in their sleep.
We, who worship the occasional snow,
awaken to too much of the white religion...
I open my door;
the air cracks...
My boots crunch the bones
of the familiar world...
... these lines totally electrified me, David, and were so acute and evocative I was frozen to the spot with awe and delight. Such cleanness and clarity - the exactness is stunning and enhances that pristine environment of chill that you depict for us here. Very, very impressed, thank you! :)) xx
A real delight to read.
Georg
I have enjoyed the reading of this composition. A poetic glowing star.
In admiration,
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
sacrifice to the winter god,"...and my favorite lines..."We, who worship the occasional snow,awaken to too much of the white religion."...AMEN! Just beautiful!
Your alliteration herein works powerfully well to incorporate both the startling sounds, and the muffled stillness of the moment. Your s's in the beginning snap and sizzle in the air--in the readers' minds, and then, you continue on with stilled w's and and r's. --I can't put it all here, but for the readers-- check out how he uses repeated sounds to create echoes of what he writes--the crunchy sounds of "c" and "ch"-- the windy "w"-- it's a perfect pattern for how to use this tool in writing.
You've mastered it-- perhaps through some arduous manipulation, but certainly not completely. To write that fluidly, it's got to come mostly intuitively-- and therein lies your genius.
--Charlie
Cryssa