Tag: Poem of the Week

Skiing In March

Published on by Editorial Staff

We’ve had our first day of spring, but it’s still March.  Here’s a poem from Canadian poet,  Susanne von Rennenkampff, that reminds us that spring may not be just around the corner in all parts of the world, and for some people, that’s cause for celebration.

Skiing In March

Maybe
if you forget it’s March,
forget that elsewhere
they’ve been wearing shorts
for weeks;

if you are suddenly
stopped in your tracks
by the intricate pattern
rising on the white trunk
of a birch, the rows upon rows
of silvery beads;
if you feel the bright splash
of rosehips on fresh snow,
crimson like blood
from the queen’s finger,
and do not flinch;

if you kneel down,
put your two fists
side by side
in the prints
of the moose
that crossed the trail
this morning;

maybe then
you will be grateful
that you still can ski
while elsewhere
snowdrops and primroses
have bloomed for weeks.

     Susanne von Rennenkampff
     Alberta, Canada

The Air Smelled Dirty

Published on by Editorial Staff

Massachusetts poet, Marge Piercy, remembers when houses were heated with coal.  My family referred to our coal furnace as “The Octopus”. 

The Air Smelled Dirty

Everyone burned coal in our neighborhood,
soft coal they called it from the mountains
of western Pennsylvania where my father
grew up and fled as soon as he could, where
my Welsh cousins dug it down in the dark.

The furnace it fed stood in the dank
basement, its many arms upraised
like Godzilla or some other monster.
It was my job to pull out clinkers
and carry them to the alley bin.

Mornings were chilly, frost on windows
etching magic landscapes.  I liked
to stand over the hot air registers
the warmth blowing up my skirts.
But the basement scared me at night.

The fire glowed like a red eye through
the furnace door and the clinkers fell
loud and the shadows came at me as
mice scampered.  The washing machine
was tame but the furnace was always hungry.

    Marge Piercy
    Wellfleet, Massachusetts