A Longing For Winter

The flowers in the vase, in the curtains, in the past are in full bloom. 


I want to summon winter. I want leaves wilting at my sight. 


My eyes haven't been cold in a while. I have yet to see this valley painted white.


A forest has been claimed to you. It will flock to your feet. 


There is a paper lying somewhere with your name on it. It is yours. 


Some things were written in my voice. I ask you to read it that way.


I speak to the glass some days and understand what must happen for it to speak back. 


When you come from your catacomb, tell me you came for me.


Pick your shining stone and aim at the smallest window.


I want to be alive again. 

Poetry by Praveen Bhusal
Read 70 times
Written on 2018-08-04 at 15:36

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I agree with Bibek, the prose-poetry works nicely, bridging the poetic phrases and the story-like quality. The use of "catacomb" is startling.

The over-arching quality of the poem, though, is in the conceit itself: summoning winter to awaken you. I cannot recall such a summoning. Spring is the herald, the return to life. You have chosen winter, a "longing for winter," and "leaves wilting at my sight," which makes this poem unique, your own, and to give winter a will, to pick up a stone, to play an active role in your life, is not to be expected.

The catacomb, a place for the dead, gives me pause. Winter is not hibernating, but actually dead. Winter becomes the undead. Winter, pale by nature, becomes even more so. It is a twist, an invitation to the dead. Very unlike Miss Emily.

Well done ~

So much longing here. I cherish the prose poem form, the way it is structured. I am equally fascinated by the word "catacomb." The allusion here is very literal. Being so literal halted my flow, and I stopped to contemplate the Roman Empire. The longing then gets punctuated with the closure.