{"id":8277,"date":"2014-01-09T15:14:17","date_gmt":"2014-01-09T20:14:17","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blogs.northcountrypublicradio.org\/allin\/?p=8277"},"modified":"2014-01-09T15:14:17","modified_gmt":"2014-01-09T20:14:17","slug":"winter-of-extreme-prejudice","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blogs.northcountrypublicradio.org\/allin\/2014\/01\/09\/winter-of-extreme-prejudice\/","title":{"rendered":"Winter of extreme prejudice"},"content":{"rendered":"

Winter used to be the time when I wrote most of my poetry. There was something about a relentless, glittering, deadly season that fired up my anxieties to a pitch were poetry or catatonia were the only options. I recall lines like:<\/p>\n

February mornings, it’s death outside the door, 25 below.<\/em>
\nTea water freezes in the kettle. The dog’s breath floats<\/em>
\nin puffs above the hearthrug and crystallizes on the window.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\""Ice,"<\/a>

“Ice,” wood engraving. Artist: Greg Lago, Clayton, NY<\/p><\/div>or<\/p>\n

We could die here if those clouds hold snow.<\/em>
\nSpring could find us like Spanish coins,<\/em>
\nstorm-flung on the beaches of Cuba,<\/em>
\nhung from the ears of women for luck.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

or<\/p>\n

When the ice goes out in the night, all at once,<\/em>
\nlike a hammer through a plate-glass window.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

For the last number of years though, winters have been puppy chow in the North Country–starting late, ending early, and having a certain lack of murderous enthusiasm in between.<\/p>\n

But this year, finally, we have a winter of extreme prejudice, an old-time horror show of a season. And you know what? I can’t say I like it.<\/p>\n

Anxiety just doesn’t float my boat like it used to. I look up at all that ice up on the roof, and it nags at me. I look at the Adirondack chairs frozen into the side yard permafrost and think–poor husbandry of resources.<\/p>\n

Fortunately, my nerves were soon soothed. We had a bit of a thaw, and with a sound not unlike the end of the world, all that ice came off in a single sheet and crushed the Adirondack chairs to kindling. No more worries–mischief managed.<\/p>\n

I guess I’ll have to look elsewhere for topics poetical. The polar vortex is dead to me.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Winter used to be the time when I wrote most of my poetry. There was […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1],"tags":[6128],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.northcountrypublicradio.org\/allin\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8277"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.northcountrypublicradio.org\/allin\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.northcountrypublicradio.org\/allin\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.northcountrypublicradio.org\/allin\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.northcountrypublicradio.org\/allin\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8277"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.northcountrypublicradio.org\/allin\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8277\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8286,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.northcountrypublicradio.org\/allin\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8277\/revisions\/8286"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.northcountrypublicradio.org\/allin\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8277"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.northcountrypublicradio.org\/allin\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8277"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.northcountrypublicradio.org\/allin\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8277"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}