Snow poem

Yet another snowstorm lolls about the region tonight. I’m in search of peace. Not desperately searching, but seeking peace more than sleep.

A win from late tonight has been finding the Poetry Foundation “Poem of the Day” RSS feed because there’s one about snow. “The Snow Is Deep on the Ground” comes from Kenneth Patchen in 1943. I know of him only what I’ve read tonight, but he sounds like a different kind of poet. Elsewhere on the site, a quote recalls a book of Patchen’s poetry “printed with wild typography. Many of the pages had really big words and letters — perhaps there were pages written in all caps?”

Elsewhere on the Web, a quote of Patchen’s talks about his painted poems. “It happens that very often my writing with pen is interrupted by my writing with brush, but I think of both as writing. In other words, I don’t consider myself a painter. I think of myself as someone who has used the medium of painting in an attempt to extend.”

And his friend Henry Miller says of those artworks, “One is no longer looking at a dead, printed book but at something alive and breathing, something which looks back at you with equal astonishment.”

I get the feeling Patchen wouldn’t mind if I copied him into a blog.

The Snow Is Deep on the Ground


The snow is deep on the ground.
Always the light falls
Softly down on the hair of my belovèd.

This is a good world.
The war has failed.
God shall not forget us.
Who made the snow waits where love is.

Only a few go mad.
The sky moves in its whiteness
Like the withered hand of an old king.
God shall not forget us.
Who made the sky knows of our love.

The snow is beautiful on the ground.
And always the lights of heaven glow
Softly down on the hair of my belovèd.

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