Storms came through last week bringing the spring precipitative trifecta of rain, hail, and snow; and then wind, lots of blustery wind. With every spring, I am reminded of how much I love the spring storm-skies: skies with clouds of different kinds stacked one layer upon another, fluffy white clouds above a storm cloud, and the sun breaking over it all. I love how you can be standing in sunshine under a patch of blue sky, surrounded by these clouds, and see approaching the darkness of rain, cloud descending all the way to earth in shafts of blue-gray darkness.
April is National Poetry Month, and because a friend reminded me just today, in fact, of the beauty of Gerard Manley Hopkins, I thought I would celebrate the spring storms and National Poetry Month by sharing this photo of a spring storm elsewhere (just a cell phone photo, but my amateurish attempts to capture the storm skies are futile and I frankly gave up this year), and a Hopkins poem about spring. Another time I’ll have to share more about Hopkins; a modern poet before there were modern poets.
Photo courtesy E. Buchanan
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.