March
I
Winter is long in this climate
and spring--a matter of a few days
only,--a flower or two picked
from mud or from among wet leaves
or at best against treacherous
bitterness of wind, and sky shining
teasingly, then closing in black
and sudden, with fierce jaws.
II
March,
you reminded me of
the pyramids, our pyramids--
stript of the polished stone
that used to guard them!
March,
you are like Fra Angelico
at Fiesole, painting on plaster!
March,
you are like a band of
young poets that have not learned
the blessedness of warmth
(or have forgotten it).
At any rate--
I am moved to write poetry
for the warmth there is in it
and for the loneliness--
a poem that shall have you
in it March.
III
See!
Ashur-ban-i-pal,
the archer king, on horse-back,
in blue and yellow enamel!
with drawn bow--facing lions
standing on their hind legs,
fangs bared! his shafts
bristling in their necks!
Sacred bulls--dragons
in embossed brickwork
marching--in four tiers--
along the sacred way to
Nebuchadnezzar's throne hall!
They shine in the sun,
they that have been marching--
marching under the dust of
ten thousand dirt years.
Now--
they are coming into bloom again!
See them!
marching still, bared by
the storms from my calender
--winds that blow back the sand!
winds that enfilade dirt!
winds that by strange craft
have whipt up a black army
that by pick and shovel
bare a procession to
the god, Marduk!
Natives cursing and digging
for pay unearth dragons with
upright tails and sacred bulls
alternately--
in four tiers--
lining the way to an old altar!
Natives digging at old walls--
digging me warmth--digging me sweet loneliness
high enamelled walls.
IV
My second spring--
passed in a monastery
with plaster walls--in Fiesole
on the hill above 'Florence.
My second spring--painted
a virgin--in a blue aureole
sitting on a three-legged stool,
arms crossed--
she is intently serious,
and still
watching an angel
with colored wings
half kneeling before her--
and smiling--the angel's eyes
holding the eyes of Mary
as a snake's hold a bird's.
On the ground there are flowers,
trees are in leaf.
V
But! now for the battle!
Now for murder--now for the real thing!
My third springtime is approaching!
Winds!
lean, serious as a virgin,
seeking, seeking the flowers of March.
Seeking
flowers nowhere to be found,
they twine among the bare branches
in insatiable eagerness--
they whirl up the snow
seeking under it--
they--the winds--snakelike
roar among yellow reeds
seeking flowers--flowers.
I spring among them
seeking one flower
in which to warm myself!
I deride with all the ridicule
of misery--
my own starved misery.
Counter-cutting winds
strike against me
refreshing their fury!
Come, good, cold fellows!
Have we no flowers?
Defy then with even more
desperation than ever--being
lean and frozen!
But though you are lean and frozen--
think of the blue bulls of Babylon.
Fling yourselves upon
their empty roses--
cut savagely!
But--
think of the painted monastery
at Fiesole.
poem by William Carlos Williams
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Related quotes
Just March(ing) Along..
When Winter begins
to lose His touch
and his buddy Jack Frost
don't hang 'roun as much..
The days will be one day
all sunny and warm
then by morning wake up
to a winter snow storm
March isn't winter
spring, summer or fall.
March seems to be marching
into changing it all.....
March is a beginning.
March is a end.
Winters defeater (the spring time leader)
March is marching spring in...
poem by Connetta Jean
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Prevailing Winds
Every day the increasing winds
make themselves known.
Their whistling in the trees I see
seem to have grown
stronger in intensity,
bolder everyday.
And I wonder what the flowers think
that are blooming this month of May?
Their little colorful heads
try to hold their ground.
But the winds are fiercly blowing
and their heads are turned around.
They lean towards the left first
and then towards the right.
Then something magical happens.
It becomes night.
It's like someone waved a wand
and made the winds cease.
Now those delicate flowers of May
finally feel at peace.
But peace will be short-lasting
for the winds will come again.
I know this wind has got to stop.
The flowers are asking when?
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Early Works - The Seasons
Sky clouded and morbid blue
with cracks for the sun to shine through.
Fields barren and dead
with leaves turning from green to red.
Birds on high winging south
as rivers flow from its mouth.
Sun shines a light of cold on the
ground as autumn approaching us surrounds.
The leaves of orange and red mould where they are blown
as upon us winder begins to grow.
After a while comes a white blanket of snow
covering everything that will grow.
The nights get long
and the winter winds blow strong.
Everything is frozen fast
and in this wintry waste, none must trespass.
Overnight comes the warmth of a rearing sun
bringing with it the spring,
life to every living thing.
Trees and flowers bud, bloom,
and around the corner summer begins to loom.
As everything, turns’ smiling around
there is heard in the wind loves sweet sound.
Then with sunsets beautiful, but not rare
we can tell summer is in the air.
Flowers in full bloom spread multicolour around
as small creatures scamper on the ground
under the sun profound.
All the mysteries that summer does involve
will soon be gone as the seasons again revolve.
Date Unknown. (Early 1970’s I think)
poem by David Harris
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Jennifer’s Lad
SWEET Jennifer came calling me
Along the shining beach.
'There's green upon the hawthorn tree
There's bloom upon the peach.
O, April's found the upland larch,
The hazel in the hollow,'–
But louder was the snare-drum with it's 'March, march, march !'
And clearer called the bugle, 'Will you follow ?'
Young Jennifer came seeking me
With love upon her lips.
'O, all kind angels keep the sea
And fortune guard the ships.
The Autumn winds have rent the larch,
The south has won the swallow,'–
But clearer beat the snare-drum with it's 'March, march, march !'
And sweeter sang the bugle, 'Will you follow ?'
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Travel Flowers
When you travel ‘cross the country
You see along the roadways
Bright and cheerful flowers especially
In the warm spring and summer days
I love the beautiful sunflowers
Bold yellow blooms you see
Nodding in the gentle winds
Seem to say “hello” to me
White flowers ‘long side a trail
Roots go deep in red dirt
Stand out just beautifully
As they crop up in little spurts
Old barns off in the distance
In the midst of a field of dry grass
Are dotted with many flowers
Oh, I enjoy them when I pass
When spring time sets in and we have
Warm and gentle spring showers
I love to start my trips to see
Delightful travel flowers!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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Lost Spring
I was born, once, in a spring,
When the mountains bloomed,
And the snows melted;
That very spring in March.
The skies filled with the song of birds,
The air with the fragrance of flowers,
The water shone like diamonds;
That very spring in March.
Oh I wish, I wish, to go back,
Once more to my childhood,
To that lost paradise;
That very spring in March.
poem by Alina Luiz
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Spring Flowers ~ Crocus
Crocus flowers daring tiny warriors
Fighting their way up through
The winter ice
Crocus darling early Spring harbingers
Promising days will soon
Be turning nice
Tiny Crocus flowers grow in close groups
Strength in numbers seeking
Where winter snows still may lie
Encircled encampment of floral troupes
“We march onward to spring”
They raise this brave battle cry
Bold strength contained in Crocus so small
Should winter challenge again
They simply refuse to die
Delicate blossoms possess such wherewithal
I cannot help but wonder then
Should not likewise you and I?
poem by Mary Havran
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A Love Spring
So Spring warm weather upon with you watch
bloom flowers: Tulip, Orchid, Cherry ect..
That awake Springtime beautiful blue sky
With me, feeling of peace with Spring
Pollen of the flowers trees everywhere
To let you know the Spring coming
Green grass with flowers fill us with joy
Outdoor full of activities
Spring gently warm our souls
To the Spring 's love within you and me forever.
poem by Natasa Tocuc
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The Rose Tree Of Winter
In the cold winds of Winter she stands thorny and bare
In Summer large beautiful red flowers she did wear
The Rose tree of Winter not a pretty sight
At a time of year with litle warmth in the sunlight,
When the birds in the sunlit gardens will nest and sing
She will wear her new leaves and rosebuds of the Spring
As a tree the rose tree does not grow very tall
Compared to most trees she does seem very small
But in her full bloom none as lovely as she
In her cloak of flowers she's a beautiful tree
But in Winter she stands there by the garden wall
Of the garden trees the most forlorn one of all
And though it may still be a few months from the Spring
The white backed magpie on the blackwood tree sing
But without her leaves and flowers prickly looking and bare
The rose tree looks drab in the cool morning air.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Flowers
(orbison/dees)
When I was a boy I ran among the flowers
Looking left and right at the bright array
I played through the spring, whiled away the hours
Lingered with the flowers every day
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, along the way
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, along the way
When the summer ends and the storms of life are over
When the winter comes and the petals fall away
They may write it on my stone, he was just a roller
But he stopped to pick some flowers along the way
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, picked some flowers, along the way
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunset in March
The Spring has come to us again,
flowers are dancing in the rain,
the morning sky returns to blue,
sunset in March, a magic view.
A crocus bloom, blue pearl of Spring
smiles as the robins sing and sing,
watching the skies, I'm singing too,
sunset in March, a magic view.
The lake is waiting for old boats,
a sound of hope so freely floats,
the music that our souls pursue,
sunset in March, a magic view.
There is no time like Spring, indeed,
a heart renewed for worlds in need,
may all our wishes dreams come true,
sunset in March, a magic view.
poem by Marius Alexandru (March 2022)
Submitted by anonym
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Pussy Willows, Cat Tails
Pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses
Rainbows in the woodland, water to my knees
Shivering, quivering, the warm breath of spring
Pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses
Catbirds and cornfields, daydreams together
Riding on the roadside the dust gets in your eyes
Reveling, disheveling, the summer nights can bring
Pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses
Slanted rays and colored days, stark blue horizons
Naked limbs and wheatbins, hazy afternoons
Voicing, rejoicing, the wine cups do bring
Pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses
Harsh nights and candlelights, woodfires a-blazin
Soft lips and fingertips resting in my soul
Treasuring, remembering, the promise of spring
Pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Celebration
A middle-northern March, now as always--
gusts from the South broken against cold winds--
but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide,
it moves--not into April--into a second March,
the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping
upon the mold: this is the shadow projects the tree
upward causing the sun to shine in his sphere.
So we will put on our pink felt hat--new last year!
--newer this by virtue of brown eyes turning back
the seasons--and let us walk to the orchid-house,
see the flowers will take the prize tomorrow
at the Palace.
Stop here, these are our oleanders.
When they are in bloom--
You would waste words
It is clearer to me than if the pink
were on the branch. It would be a searching in
a colored cloud to reveal that which now, huskless,
shows the very reason for their being.
And these the orange-trees, in blossom--no need
to tell with this weight of perfume in the air.
If it were not so dark in this shed one could better
see the white.
It is that very perfume
has drawn the darkness down among the leaves.
Do I speak clearly enough?
It is this darkness reveals that which darkness alone
loosens and sets spinning on waxen wings--
not the touch of a finger-tip, not the motion
of a sigh. A too heavy sweetness proves
its own caretaker.
And here are the orchids!
Never having seen
such gaiety I will read these flowers for you:
This is an odd January, died--in Villon's time.
Snow, this is and this the stain of a violet
grew in that place the spring that foresaw its own doom.
And this, a certain July from Iceland:
a young woman of that place
breathed it toward the South. It took root there.
The color ran true but the plant is small.
This falling spray of snow-flakes is
a handful of dead Februaries
prayed into flower by Rafael Arevalo Martinez
of Guatemala.
Here's that old friend who
went by my side so many years: this full, fragile
head of veined lavender. Oh that April
that we first went with our stiff lusts
leaving the city behind, out to the green hill--
May, they said she was. A hand for all of us:
this branch of blue butterflies tied to this stem.
June is a yellow cup I'll not name; August
the over-heavy one. And here are--
russet and shiny, all but March. And March?
Ah, March--
Flowers are a tiresome pastime.
One has a wish to shake them from their pots
root and stem, for the sun to gnaw.
Walk out again into the cold and saunter home
to the fire. This day has blossomed long enough.
I have wiped out the red night and lit a blaze
instead which will at least warm our hands
and stir up the talk.
I think we have kept fair time.
Time is a green orchard.
poem by William Carlos Williams
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A Missing Spring
I know that the spring will be here soon
and the flowers will start to bloom.
What I do not know is when it comes
will it take me out of this gloom?
I live with the days that still are cold
and rub my hands together.
I'm tired of waiting for warm spring days
and worrying about the weather.
But what if spring does come this year
and I don't see your face?
Then springtime might as well stay away
for it can never replace
the absence of you and how I feel
and all the flowers will only steal
the warmth of my springtime day.
So the winter might as well stay.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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March...A Springtime Tease
Just a touch of Springtime
Only a spritzle or a pat
That's all of Spring
That March will bring
You can bet your butt
On that!
April will be more fruitful
With showers, flowers and such
But March is just a springtime tease
Promising way too much
March is like a Model T
As a month it should be retired
It's only got enough Spring, you see
To make your butt feel tired.
poem by David Whalen
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When it will be spring
see flowers on my window
Cold winds whipping about
Soon I think
Wolves will begin to howl
When will it be spring?
Frozen days
When nature stands statue still
Cold hands, cold feet, cold heart
When will it be spring?
Haven’t heard a bird sing
The sun shines through a frozen haze
Sad days, cold days
When will it be spring?
poem by Jaya Ghosh
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Sonnet III: Mindful of you the sodden earth
Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,
And all the flowers that in the springtime grow,
And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow
Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing
The summer through, and each departing wing,
And all the nests that the bared branches show,
And all winds that in any weather blow,
And all the storms that the four seasons bring.
You go no more on your exultant feet
Up paths that only mist and morning knew,
Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat
Of a bird's wings too high in air to view,--
But you were something more than young and sweet
And fair,--and the long year remembers you.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Sonnet 03: Mindful Of You The Sodden Earth In Spring
Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,
And all the flowers that in the springtime grow,
And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow
Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing
The summer through, and each departing wing,
And all the nests that the bared branches show,
And all winds that in any weather blow,
And all the storms that the four seasons bring.
You go no more on your exultant feet
Up paths that only mist and morning knew,
Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat
Of a bird's wings too high in air to view,—
But you were something more than young and sweet
And fair,—and the long year remembers you.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Life's Winter
Idle, semiconscious winter fog
Settles heavy on deforested nude,
Grey and dull, everywhere, dull lull;
Spine-chilling cold, blinding grey fog,
Nowhere light streaks to warm-up heart.
Flowers and fruits of yester seasons
Only breed pains ‘neath smashing dead-weight
And drags life unto cold slow death;
Eyes go red in search of shadows
That grow tall in dusk’s twilight
To squeeze blood in bone-chilling pain.
Days are short, nights are along,
No greens, bare top everywhere;
Winds bite, old memories sting,
Eyes well up like dense white clouds
In distant brood of blue sky.
No colours, only shades of grey;
Thin dull shrieks of deep pain
Leak in slow moves form gulfs
Of grim wilderness of loneliness;
Cold void all round till eyes stretch,
No ripples of joy or warmth anywhere.
What a contrast in winter and spring!
How the spring deepens the chill of winter!
That fulsome spring; this bald winter;
Where has gone those fragrance and musics?
Those warmth, colours and sensuous tastes?
poem by Praveen Kumar
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I Dug And Dug Amongst The Snow
I dug and dug amongst the snow,
And thought the flowers would never grow;
I dug and dug amongst the sand,
And still no green thing came to hand.
Melt, O snow! the warm winds blow
To thaw the flowers and melt the snow;
But all the winds from every land
Will rear no blossom from the sand.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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