Hockey Fans Versus Wallace Stevens

Hockey Fans Versus Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost …

… and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind….

—Wallace Stevens, The Snow Man.

Hockey? I’d rather watch the moon any old time.

—Me.

They must
have that fussy
old man’s mind of winter
because here it is early June,
when nights

thicken
with lilacs and,
in the long days over
the bright water of the harbour,
the squalls

of gulls
are brief and mild,
and their mewls still no more
than rehearsals for the forlorn
autumn,

but all
they hear down here
as I bend from flower
to rock, rock to shell, and back to
flower,

are cracks
of stressed joints like
the distant gunfire sound
of frost taking February
windows;

and when
I walk along
the slow evening river
the moon-widening ripples made
by trout

jumping
echo cold, white,
in their ears all night long
with the resonance of skulls rung
on ice.

Stompin’ Tom Connors, The Hockey Song

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Art is theft, Cinquain, Concussions, Gulls, John MacKenzie, Memory, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Spring, Stompin' Tom Connors, The Brain, Wallace Stevens and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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