About the poet
Jane Duran (b. 1944) is a writer whose work is often preoccupied with memory and exile. Born in...
One way is to pour maple syrup
on fresh snow. Find a corner
by the house that the wind misses.
Do not dream of it but do it -
syrup that drifts from the maple,
your sticky mittens.
Or sprinkle gelatine over water,
add sugar, lemon. Heat gently.
It seems so effortless,
like the minnows that will appear
in the pond this summer,
so many tourings against rock,
or the powerful states of shade
under the waterfall.
Beat the egg whites - fold in
to bring the snow that races,
the doe at the window.
In grandmother's kitchen
there is an ooze from the oven dish
with the Atlantic in it,
a hush over it,
an invisible recipe
at the back of the cookbook -
how to prepare snow
when it is really taking you sideways
out of control -
past the side of the house
past the lost barn, journeying
with the blurred crossings
everyhwere the land still rising.
Bring in your black and white branches.
Lay your icy clouds on the table.
The roads are impassable.
from Breathe Now, Breathe (Enitharmon, 1995), © Jane Duran 1995, used by permission of the author and the publisher
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