A Piece of the Storm
From the shadow of domes in the city of domes, A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your room And made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking up from your book, saw it the moment it landed. That’s all There was to it. No more than a solemn waking To brevity, to the lifting and falling away of attention, swiftly, A time between times, a flowerless funeral. No more than that Except for the feeling that this piece of the storm, which turned into nothing before your eyes, would come back. That someone years hence, sitting as you are now, might say: “It’s time. The air is ready. The sky has an opening.”
I like the use of scenery and momentum that this poem uses, and yet I can really grasp the meaning. Is he describing a reaction? An emotion?
what do you get if he is describing a reaction?
what do you get if he is describing an emotion?
what do you get when you concentrate on the ‘scenery’?
what do you get when you concentrate on the ‘momentum’ (i like that idea…)?
what do you get when you eat a klondike bar?
read these a bit more deeply. come to some conclusions, tentative as they might be, and see if you can get somebody out there in the blogosphere to respond.
don’t do this for a class assignment, do this for life. get a voice. let it roar.
bpete is sweet =)
at the very moment that you decide to sit down in a specific chair, with a specific window open, holding that specific book, YOU alter what shall happen from there on out. That small moment in which you are touched by the tiniest snowflake; and that second in time you have been connected to the large grandeur of the storm. This poem reminds us that at any moment our smallest and most trivial of decisions can affect how we live the rest of our lives. We wake up every morning to go to school, to work, and for what? Could it be that today is the day we have chosen to walk into a building that will soon be on fire, or under siege? As a teenage girl in highschool, I often find myself in over-dramatic situations with diva’s who would like nothing better than to scream and fight on the most trival of matters; however the foul circumstances, there has never been a time where I have made a decision with the implication that at another moment in time I would be face to face with the drama queens of my time. Similarly with my parents, or sister, by lashing out at them, by not folding the laundry at that very precise moment I had been asked; that decision would force me into a whirlwind of arguements and yelling matches with my mother or father. In the end you end up asking yourself, Could it have been different? Strand proposes the same question here in A Piece of the Storm.