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Winter is Coming: A Winter Wonderland of Books, Recipes, Films, and More!: Literature

Introduction

There are many wonderful pieces of writing that are winter themed.  From the poetry of Robert Frost to Leo Tolstoy's battle scenes in the snowy landscape of Russia to the fantasy world of George Martin where the Stark's motto is, "Winter is Coming," winter has sparked the imaginations of many authors, and we present some suggestions for winter reading.  These are by no means all of the works available, but they are a sampling.  If you would like any further suggestions, please feel free to contact one of wonderful librarians for more information.

Literature

Poems Without Links (Text Only)

Winter Morning

Richard Meier

Shyly coated in greys, blacks, browns -
to keep us out of sight of the cold -
we weren't expecting this this morning: sun

and shadows, like a summer's evening, like summer
teasing. And not quite under the shelter on
the northbound platform, an old man, the sun

behind him, just his crown ablaze; and heading
southbound, a woman inching ever nearer
the platform edge, the light a tear

across her midriff, ribcage, shoulders, closer
and closer that dearest thing, completeness,
all her darkness light at the one time.

Mayakovsky

Frank O'Hara

1
My heart’s aflutter!
I am standing in the bath tub
crying. Mother, mother
who am I? If he
will just come back once
and kiss me on the face
his coarse hair brush
my temple, it’s throbbing!
 
then I can put on my clothes
I guess, and walk the streets.
 
2
I love you. I love you,
but I’m turning to my verses
and my heart is closing
like a fist.
 
Words! be
sick as I am sick, swoon,
roll back your eyes, a pool,
 
and I’ll stare down
at my wounded beauty
which at best is only a talent
for poetry.
 
Cannot please, cannot charm or win
what a poet!
and the clear water is thick
 
with bloody blows on its head.
I embrace a cloud,
but when I soared
it rained.
 
3
That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest
oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks
what a funny place to rupture!
and now it is raining on the ailanthus
as I step out onto the window ledge
the tracks below me are smoky and
glistening with a passion for running
I leap into the leaves, green like the sea
 
4
Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.
 
The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.
 
It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.