Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”

Happy Boxing Day!


If I don’t stop complaining about what passes for “spring” in the American Midwest, I will start sounding like a broken record.  But maybe the poems can avoid that fate more easily than the prose.  Let’s see.




It’s April now, but you would never know

To see the stubborn falling of the snow.

Except to show that Winter has its nerve,

I do not see what purpose it could serve,

This cruel encroachment on the rights of Spring.

In Georgia, we would never let the thing

Get near this far.  There, as in Camelot,

The Winter never stays where it should not.

But here it doesn’t have the sense to know

When its welcome’s gone, and it should go.


Remember: for more poetry like this, go to and order Stars Through the Clouds!


About gandalf30598

Theologian, philosopher, poet, and critic; minister of the Gospel who makes his living by teaching medieval and renaissance literature; dual citizen of Narnia and Middle Earth.

Posted on December 26, 2011, in Donald Williams, Poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. My Irish friend is not fond of Boxing Day. A failed attempt to repeat Christmas, she says. But I enjoyed wandering the shops still decorated for Christmas and eating turkey, ham, stuffing, and cranberry sandwiches and soup for dinner. Not a bad Irish Boxing Day, really.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: