From T.S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”:
“Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,
The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
In windless cold that is the heart’s heat,
Reflecting in a watery mirror
A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,
Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire
In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing
The soul’s sap quivers. There is no earth smell
Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time
But not in time’s covenant. Now the hedgerow
Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom
Of snow, a bloom more sudden
Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,
Not in the scheme of generation.”
A few weeks ago we had our first real snowfall in two years, in fact, we had two snowfalls in a week and cold enough temperatures to keep the snow around longer. I love it when it snows here. Life comes to a halt, which is really quite beneficial for those of us who can’t slow down but desperately need to. As an artist, if you don’t find time to cultivate your craft, your purpose, and your inspiration, you can’t create meaningful work.
I’ve been reading and ruminating on T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets recently, and the snowfall brought the imagery in this first section of “Little Gidding” to mind. I went out into the cold several times to ramble through the snow and take pictures. The world was aglow “with frost and fire/ The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches.” I found this lonely, wilted rose in my garden covered in ice. It seemed poetic to me, this blossom left from the warmer months covered in the “transitory blossom of snow”.



After photographing the rose, the imagery wouldn’t leave me, and the lingering snow prompted me to start a painting before the snow melted. Some people like to curl up with a book on a snow day (which I do at times), but snow always inspires me to grab a cup of tea and my paints and to start creating. Somehow, it’s the halting of the busy activities and setting aside media and replacing these with moments spent drinking in the beauty around you, that you feel that “glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier”.

Although this is not an illustration of the poem, there is something about the imagery of the rose which also calls to mind for me a similar imagery from The Four Quartets. I think this was in my subconscious when I picked the rose to paint. “Little Gidding” ends with these lines: “When the tongues of flame are in-folded/ Into the crowned knot of fire/ And the fire and the rose are one.” While I’d like to dive more into the meaning of this ending, my post is more about my personal response to a section of the poem rather than its inherent meaning. I’ll save that for another time.
Well, I hope we get one more good snowfall this winter. There are a few more ideas about winter I’d like to explore before the flowers bloom, and I could use at least one more lazy snow day to do it.







