I started off writing a poem about the start of winter when things are still green, hoping it would lead me to something else. I then wrote about everything being unidentifiable in a snowy landscape , and then got the idea of starting the set of poems (since that’s what my brain obviously wanted to do) at work when one wears ‘normal’ clothes to the office in the morning in the sunshine and by quitting time, the world is quickly becoming transformed by falling snow. Winter never sneaks up on us gradually here; it always just appears suddenly like a guest—who then stays and stays and stays.

Flakes spin
out of heavy lead sky.
White fall spirals,
relentlessly intent on covering
every speck of green.
Eating my sandwich
steps from the office
I can only stare.

Black pavement first
becomes Dalmation-like, but
then slowly disappears
into solid white canvas.
I grip the steering wheel and shiver
in my summer-weight skirt.

I creep by iron benches in the park;
they turn cozy and
welcoming with an inviting
snow quilt. Sidewalk
edges get a new rounded “do”
and spiky iron fence poles stand crowned
with dollops of creamy nature.

Hot morning mug in hand
I stand stunned at the window
and attempt to take in
the transformation:
gone are the car,
the hedge,
the trike,
the steps,
the road,
the world that existed
at bedtime last night.
Bewildering soft pillow mounds of white
appear in the new landscape,
and I—
I don’t have
a ready map.

Assignment Two

For this particular assignment, even before I started writing, I wanted to try almost everything we’ve learned about poetry: metaphor, simile, rhyme, repetition, dissonance, assonance, and anaphora, but always with the caveat that it had to work in the poem. I didn’t want to put in any technique just for technique’s sake.

The inspiration for this poem became my dad, although the poem didn’t initially start off about him—it started off with me wanting to describe the beauty of our forty-acre farm in Southwest Washington State on the side of Green Mountain. I was only ten when we moved there and the amount of work my dad did just before breakfast boggles my mind. He then would drive to work, work all day, come home, and do all the farm chores again.

Fresh dawn leaves long pale prints on Green Mountain.
Tireless like time, his cowboy hat mashed down, he stands on the porch,
frosty puffs forming in the briskness like Marlboro Man breaths.
Stopping to stroke one-horned Betty before milking, he breaks the fast
of the sheep, the geese, the goat—but bottle feeds Carl the calf.
Golden smiling dog always nearby during chores, he scatters grain,
clucks over the squabbling hens scrabbling in the earth;
and laughs at the black dog trying to herd everything,
even the pitches of hay raining down. Then,
off to his real job, into the sunrise Dad rides away.

Assignment Three
Sestina Goes A-journeying
Here I ride in the silver hurtling tube to meet my penfriend Jane.
They’re serving dinner now; the tray table rests on my lap. Plans for our travel
have been in the works for months: ancient York,
Norwich, and the Firth of Forth—we have been on the train
in our dreams since April, and the passing time
alternately dragged and flew by as I researched the North Sea’s castles.

I learned that in medieval days, one outpost became known as York Castle.
The itinerary covering stone bulwarks and British beauty is the work of Jane;
I can hardly believe I’m meeting her in only a few hours’ time.
Smitten with the UK flight attendants, their accents accentuate the travel
bug I have; and their polite competence makes me grateful for their train-
ing. After I finally get to Heathrow, Jane and I will storm Buck House, then hit York,

home of bicycles and pedestrians, not unlike New York.
I wonder if, reminiscent of spooky Ireland, I will see perched castles
on every high green moor and within eyesight of the train.
Who could have guessed all these letters would lead to meeting Jane?
Oh, tray tables need to go up now. All the rules of travel,
and don’t get me started on the security lines; such a waste of time.

(Of course it’s good to sit in safety at 30,000 feet instead of spending time
dead from an explosion. ) Nearly there, I recall Jane formerly lived in York
and in fact that’s where she met Alain years ago when his business travel
took him there. He proposed to her at a ruined castle
and she laughed at him, my exuberant friend Jane.
But they married anyway and now live hundreds of miles north by train

in the Scottish Highlands, although we’ll fly there and not take the train.
If we had more time,
I would happily go everywhere, including Iceland, but Jane
must get back to her family so she will leave me at York
after we have explored Cambridge and taken in the ghostly castle
that sits on the edge of town and for which I search in my travels.

So we flew from Gatwick to Inverness to save on travel
time, and I marveled at Loch Ness. We caught the train
at Edinburgh and also visited Whitby Abbey (not like a castle
whatsoever) which sits on a high serene bluff; and the time
we spent together at the Dover cliffs and in the North York
Moors disappeared with haste, and I find I still miss Jane.

Here at home, I marvel that even after all the castles and dreamy travels,
I still wish go with Jane, following the shoreline by train,
caught up in folklore time haunting the city of York.

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Last Modified: 10/02/2009