Tracey Pilch

Selected Writings

The small funerals of love
Like the sun that dies too soon
and takes the song
in bird
with it,

dirt,
and the cycling seasons
of rain,
snow

and wind.

January
Again, the snows.
White silence through the pines.
Another swollen moon

empties its dandruff cries.
How still the echoes
of winter blow.

Lonely
and lovely
and necessary.

So heavy in the bark,
the long-dream waits
on spring.

Untitled
Love, when it breaks,
breaks like the sea
against rock,

hard and loud
in the heart’s deft
ear.

Sudden and for all;
spitting bones
to the sands.

The Snow Man

"One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.”

-Wallace Stevens from "The Snow Man"

Dear Friend,

A wintry poem in the heart of winter. On minding the snows. On the sound of the land. On listening; perhaps the most important of the winter senses: the ear, like a sleeping timpani encrusted in snow, must open like the hope of spring if we are ever to move past the ice and the cold, harsh breath of life's seasons.

And as with the semester, this very afternoon light dwindles much too quickly — leaving a beautiful, yellow streak behind a silhouette of stark, charcoal branches. And yet this light, trickling behind the frozen pines, resonates. It cuts clear across the land — breaking every treetop, glazing the icy waters, bending mountain and stone. This light, this hope, is what carries the wing in every bird. What carries us.

Your winter-sounding hawks must know my ravens. They, too, have come with ferocity this year. And much earlier than usual. Their shiny, bold, black wings clip the cold sky every morning here now, with throats as ancient as any hill or stone. They cry and know things well beyond me. In ancient folklore, Raven — great storyteller, carrier, trickster — has a wide and unconquerable spirit. Native Alaskan mythology praises the raven as a wise bird and creator. I praise it as fiercely intelligent and resilient.

You are right. The days of this season demand their own discipline. This dormancy, the steady slowing of limb and mind, cradled by the lull of winter. I miss the way it comes in New England, in spurts. Sometimes like a temper, sometimes like a spat; but always it melts so that wheels and feet return to roads again. Not like here. Once winter lays its first snow down, it is down for several months. Down like a tree no one can move out the way. Down like a dead love until April; and then only crocus can save it.

And in these days, I surround myself with color. Flowers and fragrance to offset the shivery mood. Tea and honey. Poetry and books. Work. The company of my cat, also dismayed by the length which lies ahead. I slice the apples. Light the dimming wicks of candles. Soak the meat. Cut the onions. Sprinkle the cinnamon. I see a thousand poems in all of these actions. These workings, this eternal, churning process I become one with. This cycling, recycling, simmering of ideas and soul. The long, grinding hours of process.

Gathering our travels and dreams is the eternal work of the poet. The artist. I think of this as I embrace the spring ahead. The culmination of this gathering, weaving, fusing. These travels. The varied landscapes. Portraits. Languages. Dream after dream.

I think of your recent "waking from bad dreams." Some time ago, I was filled with them. Like having one foot in this world and one in the other, my body moved through my unconscious state like a vehement traveler. Whirling. Listening. The spirits told me many things. And the landscapes I saw, from color to voice, came true as I woke; in one form or another, a terrible familiarity of connections and rediscovery enveloped my waking state. I could sew a thread through both worlds. Ancient civilizations believed sleep provided the vehicle for communication with the beyond. I believe this. And I think listening to what we dream can be critical. I hope your dreams fill with flowers and song and words you find indispensable.

To Pablo Neruda's staggering There is no Forgetfulness: “But let's not go deeper than those teeth, nor bite into the rinds growing over the silence, because I don't know what to say: there are so many people dead and so many sea-walls that the red sun used to split, and so many heads that the boats hit, and so many hands that have closed around kisses, and so many things I would like to forget."