Friday, February 19, 2016

Poetry Friday - The Poetry of Bad Weather

Since it's February and we've had a few snow days already, I wanted a poem on the winter doldrums or snow. However, I came across this poem and decided it was exactly what I needed to share today.

The Poetry of Bad Weather
by Debora Greger

Someone had propped a skateboard
by the door of the classroom,
to make quick his escape, come the bell.

For it was February in Florida,
the air of instruction thick with tanning butter.
Why, my students wondered,

did the great dead poets all live north of us?
Was there nothing to do all winter there
but pine for better weather?

Read the poem in its entirety.

I do hope you'll take some time today to check out all the wonderful poetic things being shared and collected by Donna Smith at Mainley Write. Happy poetry Friday friends!


  1. Interesting! In truth, the poem could have been written any time, and yet, gently interspersed were hints of being a contemporary poem: the skateboard poised for rapid escape, and especially the beautiful metaphor "Not even the songbird of a cell phone chirped. Go home"! Thank you for sharing this poem today. Reminds me that in looking admiringly to other places where we think the real, worthwhile, notoriety of action is, we miss the vitality of where we are, of seeing and partaking in what's going on right where we are! Thanks! and God bless you!

  2. I wrote about bad weather today, too. February and bad weather nearly always go together in New England. Except for the week I spent in Orlando two years ago. ;-)

  3. Oh, this is such a wonderful "other" perspective. I feel for those poor students, and love "Only the dull roar of air forced to spend its life indoors
    could be heard." Thank you, Tricia.

  4. Why I Prefer Real Winters

    Some of us there are
    who do not love the sun.
    We pine for fairy snow
    that like good lotion
    covers all imperfections.
    True earth will,
    like all elders,
    turn gray and mushy,
    the complexion
    as well as the waist
    faling to the rigors
    of a gravity
    and the grave.
    In New England
    we call this
    Mud and Bud.
    At seventy-seven,
    I feel like mud
    but remember bud
    every time a good old man
    passes by and winks.

    ©2016 Jane Yolen all rights reserved

  5. Lots of fun allusions in here, Tricia, if one had "world enough and time..." Did you see this essay by Stephen Burt at the Poetry Foundation recently? I think you'll enjoy it. Thanks for sharing!

  6. Nice poem. Nice blog. Thanks.

    I hope you'll want to add my blog to your list.

  7. Nice response poem, Jane!

  8. "Was there nothing to do all winter there
    but pine for better weather?"
    Hmmm. Maybe...