April

Eliot insisted it was the cruelest month, and ever since he's been quoted repeatedly by the winter-weary, even though complaints about long-delayed spring were not really the thrust of the opening lines of The Wasteland.

Here in Montreal, this has been a particularly cruel April -- not because it's mean of spring to "breed lilacs out of the dead land"  or "stir the dull roots" after a long winter's forgetful sleep, but because our human hopes for spring have been dashed again and again. While friends further south are posting photos of magnolias, daffodils, and green grass, we have mud, ice, piles of grey snow, and not a single green bud on any tree. Worse, every time the weather has gotten warmer, and the cafe chairs been pulled out onto the sidewalks so that Montrealers can huddle outside in the blessed sunshine, wearing parkas and clutching coffee cups, we've woken the next day to yet another snowfall. Yes, rain comes and the snow dissolves and melts, creating more mud and grime, but so far the longed-for final release of winter's grip hasn't happened.

We all get fed up and depressed, but I've found that taking pictures has helped this year with the tangle of emotions this transition period seems to bring up. As in November, there is a de-saturated beauty to these April days, and looking harder to find it as I walk through the quiet streets and ruelles has somehow been good for my spirits.

My thoughts, as I walk, have been cast not toward my friends and neighbors in warm, noisier, more colorful climates, but to unknown compatriots in places like Stockholm, Oslo, Moscow, and I've felt like allowing my eyes to do the work rather than my words. And so I've turned to Tomas Tranströmer, who writes about April in a way that makes sense to me:

 

April and Silence

Spring lies forsaken.
The velvet-dark ditch
crawls by my side
without reflections.

The only thing that shines
are yellow flowers.

I am cradled in my shadow
like a fiddle
in its black case.

The only thing I want to say
glimmers out of reach
like the silver
at the pawnbroker’s.

--translation by Patty Crane

Bright Scythe: Selected Poems, Crane's new translation of Transtromer's poems, was released in January and has received much acclaim. I don't have it yet, but I'll be buying a copy soon. Transtromer's voice is not comforting, but it is true, especially for those of us who live in cold places and over our lives find meaning in the harshness of our climate, the daily necessity of struggling with it, and our attraction to its desolate and pristine beauty. I understand the poet all the more as I grow older, and choose not to leave our wintry home for an easier four or six months. Getting away for a week or two is one thing, but cutting winter out of your life entirely is another -- for me, that would be cruel, because I know it would feel like cutting out a part of the cycle of thought that feels intrinsic to my experience of life.