February Poems And Quotes

The Snow Man" One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves, Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. Wallace Stevens, The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens. (Vintage; Reissue edition February 19, 1990)

What is older than desire? the bare tree asked. Sorrow, said the sky. Sorrow is a river older than desire. — Robert Hass, from “February: Question” in “February Notebooks: The Rains,” Summer Snow: New Poems (Ecco, 2020)

Romantic obsession is my first language. I live in a world of fantasies, infatuations and love poems. Sometimes I wonder if the yearning I’ve felt for others was more of a yearning for yearning itself. I’ve pined insatiably and repeatedly: for strangers, new lovers, unrequited flames. While the subjects changed, that feeling always remained. Perhaps, then, I have not been so infatuated with the people themselves, but with the act of longing. from “Life without Longing,” The New York Times (9 February 2019)

Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping, Of February, in sobs and ink, Write poems, while the slush in thunder Is burning in the black of spring.

We met our love in the February air And the lives we had before, They began to tear

Lady, that soft skin, Your bones and mine Will all be dust Before another mountain’s raised. No oceans, Not a river, Hardly a stream Will dry Before our eyes do, And our hearts. – But should I love you less, For such ephemerality? – I think the more instead. For our love’s in the real world; Profane and carnal, at times banal, But in our human sight, sublime. No greater, but quite different To dying suns and levelled range compared We share from our two separate selves A happenstance understanding, An unfateful fate, Designed by, decreed by nothing, Ungiven, not granted, But ours the more for that, The thing no thing can ever learn, The first and final lesson: Mortality is a quality of life. (January–February 1979)

When I said I wasn’t with another girl the January after we fell in love for the 3rd time, it’s because it wasn’t actual sex. In the February that began our radio silence, it was actual sex. I hate the tight shirts that go below your waistline. Not only do they make you look too young, but then your torso is a giraffe’s neck attached to tiny legs. I screamed at myself in the subway for writing poems about you still. I made a scene. I think about you almost each morning, and roughly every five days, I still believe you’re there. I still masturbate to you. When we got really bad, I would put another coat of mop water on the floor of the bar to make sure you were asleep when I got to my side of the bed. You are the only person to whom I’ve lied, knowing I was telling the truth. I miss the way your neck wraps around my face like a cave we are both lost in. I remember when you said being with me is like being alone with company. My friend Sarah wrote a poem about pink ponies. I’m scared you’re my pink pony. Hers is dead. It is really sad. You’re not dead. You live in Ohio, or Washington, or Wherever. You are a shadow my body leaves on other girls. I have a growing queue of things I know will make you laugh and I don’t know where to put them. I mourn like you’re dead. If you had asked me to stay, I would not have said no. It would never mean yes.

We look for self when self / is an itinerary, not the junction / point. — Chelsea Dingman, from “CONCEPTUAL DIAGRAM ILLUSTRATING HOW HUMANS ARE STRUCTURED AND FORMED; SEE ALSO ADDICTION (N) AND STILLBIRTH (N)”, Through a Small Ghost: Poems (University of Georgia Press (February 15, 2020)

My ears filled with sounds Of the paddling of canoes My feet filled with the dampness Of the early morning dew My eyes filled with the road ahead And all that comes into view My minds filled with thoughts That remind me of you

Trouble" That is what the Odyssey means. Love can leave you nowhere in New Mexico raising peacocks for the rest of your life. The seriously happy heart is a problem. Not the easy excitement, but summer in the Mediterranean mixed with the rain and bitter cold of February on the Riviera, everything on fire in the violent winds. The pregnant heart is driven to hopes that are the wrong size for this world. Love is always disturbing in the heavenly kingdom. Eden cannot manage so much ambition. The kids ran from all over the piazza yelling and pointing and jeering at the young Saint Chrysostom standing dazed in the church doorway with the shining around his mouth where the Madonna had kissed him.

To fill the days up of his dateless year Flame from Queen Helen to Queen Guenevere? For first of all the sphery signs whereby Love severs light from darkness, and most high, In the white front of January there glows The rose-red sign of Helen like a rose: And gold-eyed as the shore-flower shelterless Whereon the sharp-breathed sea blows bitterness, A storm-star that the seafarers of love Strain their wind-wearied eyes for glimpses of, Shoots keen through February's grey frost and damp The lamplike star of Hero for a lamp; The star that Marlowe sang into our skies With mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes; And in clear March across the rough blue sea The signal sapphire of Alcyone Makes bright the blown bross of the wind-foot year; And shining like a sunbeam-smitten tear Full ere it fall, the fair next sign in sight Burns opal-wise with April-coloured light When air is quick with song and rain and flame, My birth-month star that in love's heaven hath name Iseult, a light of blossom and beam and shower, My singing sign that makes the song-tree flower; Next like a pale and burning pearl beyond The rose-white sphere of flower-named Rosamond Signs the sweet head of Maytime; and for June Flares like an angered and storm-reddening moon Her signal sphere, whose Carthaginian pyre Shadowed her traitor's flying sail with fire; Next, glittering as the wine-bright jacinth-stone, A star south-risen that first to music shone, The keen girl-star of golden Juliet bears Light northward to the month whose forehead wears Her name for flower upon it, and his trees Mix their deep English song with Veronese; And like an awful sovereign chrysolite Burning, the supreme fire that blinds the night, The hot gold head of Venus kissed by Mars, A sun-flower among small sphered flowers of stars, The light of Cleopatra fills and burns The hollow of heaven whence ardent August yearns; And fixed and shining as the sister-shed Sweet tears for Phaethon disorbed and dead, The pale bright autumn's amber-coloured sphere, That through September sees the saddening year As love sees change through sorrow, hath to name Francesca's; and the star that watches flame The embers of the harvest overgone Is Thisbe's, slain of love in Babylon, Set in the golden girdle of sweet signs A blood-bright ruby; last save one light shines An eastern wonder of sphery chrysopras, The star that made men mad, Angelica's; And latest named and lordliest, with a sound Of swords and harps in heaven that ring it round, Last love-light and last love-song of the year's, Gleams like a glorious emerald Guenevere's.

The Truth the Dead Know For my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959 and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959 Gone, I say and walk from church, refusing the stiff procession to the grave, letting the dead ride alone in the hearse. It is June. I am tired of being brave. We drive to the Cape. I cultivate myself where the sun gutters from the sky, where the sea swings in like an iron gate and we touch. In another country people die. My darling, the wind falls in like stones from the whitehearted water and when we touch we enter touch entirely. No one's alone. Men kill for this, or for as much. And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone. Anne Sexton was a model who became a confessional poet, writing about intimate aspects of her life, after her doctor suggested that she take up poetry as a form of therapy. She studied under Robert Lowell at Boston University, where Sylvia Plath was one of her classmates. Sexton won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1967, but later committed suicide via carbon monoxide poisoning. Topics she covered in her poems included adultery, masturbation, menstruation, abortion, despair and suicide.

Senja Lembayung Jingga, Senja adalah penanda Senja adalah perenungan Senja adalah sela Siang berakhir Malam menjelang Di antara itu ada senja Ada doa dalam setiap senja Sujud syukur untuk gerak raga hari itu Senja akhiri hiruk pikuk Senja sambut sunyi malam Bukan mentari yang pergi Namun bumi rindu malam Nikmati indahnya taburan bintang Di keheningan malam Buat seorang teman, yang ikut berbagi makna senja, 28 Februari 2019, 18.00 WITA

To the Unknown Lover Horrifying, the very thought of you whoever you are, future knife to my scar, stay where you are. Be handsome, beautiful, drop-dead gorgeous, keep away. Read my lips. No way. OK? This old heart of mine’s an empty purse. These ears are closed. Don't phone, want dinner, make things worse. Your little quirks? Your wee endearing ways? What makes you you, all that? Stuff it, mount it, hang it on the wall, sell tickets, I won't come. Get back. Get lost. Get real. Get a life. Keep schtum. And just, you must, remember this — there'll be no kiss, no clinch, no smoochy dance, no true romance. You are Anonymous. You're Who? Here's not looking, kid, at you. Carol Ann Duffy, Love Poems (Picador USA, February 1st 2010)

BELINDA’S PETITION (Boston, February 1782) To the honorable Senate and House of Representatives of this Country, new born: I am Belinda, an African, since the age of twelve a Slave. I will not take too much of your Time, but to plead and place my pitiable Life unto the Fathers of this Nation. Lately your Countrymen have severed the Binds of Tyranny. I would hope you would consider the Same for me, pure Air being the sole Advantage of which I can boast in my present Condition.

Death folds the corners of my mouth into a heart-shaped star. It sits on my tongue like a stone around which your name blossoms distorted. — Audre Lorde, from “Speechless,” The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde. (W. W. Norton & Company; Reprint edition February 17, 2000)

Lauren Slater depicts such a state a year after starting Prozac: It’s been almost a year now since I’ve composed a short story or a poem, I who always thought of myself as a writer, all tortured and intense. I can just manage this journal. So maybe I’m not a writer anymore. Maybe Prozac has made me into a nun, or a nurse, or worse, a Calgon Lady. Why can’t I manage a simple story? Why is my voice—all my voices—so lost to me? Every morning, before work, I come to the blank page and look at it. It looks like winter. It is February in my mind. I think of the things people have said about the blank page, all the images. Sheet of snow. Anesthetized skin. To those images I add my own: the white of Prozac powder, spread thin.

if you like my poems let them walk in the evening,a little behind you then people will say “Along this road i saw a princess pass on her way to meet her lover (it was toward nightfall) with tall and ignorant servants. — E.E. Cummings, “if you like my poems let them,” Etcetera: The Unpublished Poems of E.E. Cummings. Liveright February 5, 2001) Originally published 1983.

(Guaranteeing Tomorrow) I watch in sorrow most people occupied with collecting more money getting more promotions building bigger houses purchasing more real estate and other possessions new cars more products to consume… I see people obsessed with owning anything and everything they could lay their hands on to guarantee tomorrow to ensure luxurious lives… Yet few realize that tomorrow may never come, and if it does come, it shall be sad, scary, and desolate… Few realize that it may not rain tomorrow that the land may completely dry up that everyone’s preoccupation with possessing more, is the very thing that shall cause humanity’s demise, after draining all possible forms of life… Few are aware that the panic, the fear, and the obsession with guaranteeing tomorrow, are exactly what have made tomorrow impossible to guarantee… What a painful paradox… [Original poem published in Arabic on February 7, 2024 at ahewar.org]

The Triumph of Goodness" If only the reality was like cartoons like teenager books and stories or like the countless movies and soap operas produced specially for the naïve in which goodness triumphs at the end… Anyone who follows the reality of the world closely and deeply, shall find that the triumph of goodness is nothing but a myth a trick created by the evildoers themselves to trick us into thinking that goodness, honesty, and virtues win in the end… The world turns upside down when we discover that all these good and well-selected virtues are nothing but myths fabricated by the vicious and the evil ones to permanently maintain their control over the naïve who believe that goodness triumphs just like at the end of movies… [Original poem published in Arabic on February 26, 2024 at ahewar.org]

Arabs & Garbage" Strange is the Arab story with garbage! Who told them who taught them to toss garbage randomly wherever and however they please? When will the Arabs understand that placing garbage in its right place will solve half of their environmental and societal problems? And the other half of their problems will be solved, too, as soon as they stop tossing out their human gems forcing out their most talented and qualified human capital to serve foreigners in foreign lands? When will the Arabs stop getting rid of their best minds, replacing them with foreign garbage they glorify simply because the foreign individuals have white skin and blue eyes and claim to possess skills and expertise the Arabs can’t survive without… When will the Arabs understand that placing garbage in its right place -be it the garbage that govern their countries or the foreign garbage they import – will solve all their problems? [Original poem published in Arabic on February 20, 2024 at ahewar.org]

Langston Hughes was born on February 1, 1902, in Joplin, Missouri. He said he wrote most of his poetry when he was sad and, judging by all the poems he wrote, he must have been sad a lot of the time. I think what made him sad was how people, especially people of color, were treated.

January brings the snow, Makes our feet and fingers glow. February brings the rain, Thaws the frozen lake again. March brings breezes, loud and shrill, To stir the dancing daffodil. April brings out the primrose sweet, Scatters daisies at our feet. May brings flock of pretty lambs, Skipping by their fleecy dams, June brings tulips, lilies, roses, Fills the children's hands with posies. Hot July brings cooling showers, Apricots, and gillyflowers. August brings the sheaves of corn, Then the harvest home is borne. Warm September brings the fruit; Sportsmen then begin to shoot. Fresh October brings the pheasant; Then to gather nuts is pleasant. Dull November brings the blast; Then the leaves are whirling fast. Chill December brings the sleet, Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

In Lasgidi, every Lagosian could easily become a friend. Gala and 50cl coke, you better be prepared. Two squeezed 500 naira notes or a crispy thousand? Shine your eyes, my friend, everybody get your time for here. Poem - Lasgidi, from The Curtain Raiser. February 27, 2021.

[Hand Watches] I opened the drawer Where I keep old things and tokens I glanced over some hand watches With dead batteries and frozen times… Watches that were gifted to me over time By teachers or friends To commend my accomplishments and respect for time… It never occurred to them or to me then That Time would die in a heart attack And will cease to be important The day my homeland was occupied and destroyed… The day the occupying thieves In collaboration with the thieves within Would burn and destroy everything beautiful in it… And since then, I refuse to wear hand watches And will never wear one Until my people get back their Time and dignity… And when that happens, Time will remain unimportant For then, I will turn into a butterfly A sparrow A daffodil or an orange blossom, Or perhaps an apricot blossom on a branch An unstoppable sprig of water That flows beyond time and timing … In that same drawer I found Pens that have run out of ink Looking like mummified corpses.. At a moment of despair, A strong feeling struck me like a lightning Leaving me with a frightening question: What if this is a wound that all time can’t cure A cause that all the ink of the world can’t solve? [Original poem published in Arabic on February 5, 2023 at ahewar.org]

Love's Great Adventure by Stewart Stafford Look out for the wandering eye, And the fervour that follows it, A jewel clasped is the first part, Guarding against theft is trickier. Surreptitious teases acted out then, The Rubicon crossed and drained, Love, blind to impediment boundaries, Prized contagion spread as lightning. Rival houses intrude to spoil it, To still the fluttering of butterflies, And the bosom of Eros heaving, Unstoppable to every homo sapien. Here, I'll act as Cupid's emissary, Whisper lovers' spells in my ear, I'll parrot them to her to the letter, So lured, she'll have me over you. Groggy from humid moon nectar, On summertime clouded visions, A second an hour, as a day a year, Arousal of fire in swelled chests. Stallions of the Venus chariot, Borne freely to the new Arcadia, Feet skimming over terra firma, The youthful mask smothers all. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

Re-Statement of Romance" The night knows nothing of the chants of night. It is what it is as I am what I am: And in perceiving this I best perceive myself And you. Only we two may interchange Each in the other what each has to give. Only we two are one, not you and night, Nor night and I, but you and I, alone, So much alone, so deeply by ourselves, So far beyond the casual solitudes, That night is only the background of our selves, Supremely true each to its separate self, In the pale light that each upon the other throws. Wallace Stevens, The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens. (Vintage; Reissue edition, February 19, 1990) Originally published 1964.

In fact, the “women and children first” protocol for abandoning ship was not a particularly ancient one. It began with the HMS Birkenhead, a British troopship that was wrecked off Cape Town, South Africa, on February 26, 1852. The soldiers famously stood in formation on deck while the women and children boarded the boats, and only 193 of the 643 people on board survived. Hymned as the “Birkenhead drill” in a poem by Rudyard Kipling, it became a familiar touchstone of Britain’s imperial greatness and AS BRAVE AS THE BIRKENHEAD was a much-used heading in UK Titanic press coverage. A story that Captain Smith had exhorted his men to “Be British!” further burnished the oft-cited claim that Anglo-Saxon men had not forgotten how to die.

Two Valentines are actually described in the early church, but they likely refer to the same man — a priest in Rome during the reign of Emperor Claudius II. According to tradition, Valentine, having been imprisoned and beaten, was beheaded on February 14, about 270, along the Flaminian Way. Sound romantic to you? How then did his martyrdom become a day for lovers and flowers, candy and little poems reading Roses are red… ? According to legends handed down, Valentine undercut an edict of Emperor Claudius. Wanting to more easily recruit soldiers for his army, Claudius had tried to weaken family ties by forbidding marriage. Valentine, ignoring the order, secretly married young couples in the underground church. These activities, when uncovered, led to his arrest. Furthermore, Valentine had a romantic interest of his own. While in prison he became friends with the jailer’s daughter, and being deprived of books he amused himself by cutting shapes in paper and writing notes to her. His last note arrived on the morning of his death and ended with the words “Your Valentine.” In 496 February 14 was named in his honor. By this time Christianity had long been legalized in the empire, and many pagan celebrations were being “christianized.” One of them, a Roman festival named Lupercalia, was a celebration of love and fertility in which young men put names of girls in a box, drew them out, and celebrated lovemaking. This holiday was replaced by St. Valentine’s Day with its more innocent customs of sending notes and sharing expressions of affection. Does any real truth lie behind the stories of St. Valentine? Probably. He likely conducted underground weddings and sent notes to the jailer’s daughter. He might have even signed them “Your Valentine.” And he probably died for his faith in Christ.

Five things to do in February: -Write a Poem -Read a good Book -Donate to a Charity -Take a Yoga class -Pay forward

The Changing Light at Sandover, an over five-hundred-page epic poem by Pulitzer prize-winning poet, James Merrill (3 March, 1926–6 February, 1995) was inspired by what he called his “twenty-year adventure around the Ouija board,” during which he spoke to dead friends and a wide assortment of spirits.

Twenty-Three Brad rose from his bed without a word, throwing the window open to freezing, fresh, February air. I was sleeping on the floor of his tiny fraternity room, an overnight stay after a limo race. At first they were a classy way to bar hop. Later we just rode around the city drinking Macallan 25. Jesus Juice. We skipped the water and drank it neat, like no true Scotsman. In those days a bottle was only forty bucks, now it’s a thousand. Whatever the price, it produces foul fumes if you drink enough.

things to say This endless unhappiness, there’s nothing to say These silent tears of distress, there’s nothing to say These poems, worn out, confused, repetitious, Aches that are remediless, there’s nothing to say That I missed someone so much . . . and still do A feeling of amorphousness, there’s nothing to say In the night, the heart-stopping creak of your bones It’s the nearness of death they express, there’s nothing to say When there’s nowhere to go but away, believe me, With a fistful of words that are substanceless, there’s nothing to say In the autumn he wouldn’t let me love him still It’s February forever more or less, there’s nothing to say It’s cold, the bed and table and plate and . . . the ground is cold Not a breath of change nonetheless, there’s nothing to say Sir! I love . . . no! I can’t anymore – I . . . you . . . About our broken bodies I guess, there’s nothing to say

Whitman influenced his work, he said, though he also acknowledged William Butler Yeats’s role in shaping his poetry: “Yeats was right when he said that ‘out of our quarrels with others we make rhetoric. Out of our quarrels with ourselves we make poetry.’” He added, “Quarrel with yourself. Your quarrels with yourself often make the best poems. Tell yourself your own secrets, and reveal yourself. The purpose of art is to provide relief from your own paranoia and the paranoia of others. You write to relieve the pain of others, to free them from the self doubt generated by a society in which everyone is conniving and manipulating.

Grants & Programs About Us Poetry magazine January/February 2026 Subscribe Subscribe January/February 2026Poetry Dec2025 cover RGB Search by Poem or Poet Search If— Play Audio By Rudyard Kipling Share (‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies) If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’ If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

February Freeze (Sonnet) There is a difference between error and evil, there is a difference between mistake and malice. People who abandon you at your slightest mistake are not your people, don't turn cold and bitter - don't turn into the thing that hurt you, everybody must choose their own joy and truth. Only apes and robots chase after perfection, humans cherish imperfection as a sign of life; those who build castles in the air are too full of themselves to see, that perfection is a lie. Everyone can love you when you have everything, but one who loves you when you have nothing that’s the person who truly cares for you. Anybody can admire you when you're strong, but bonding happens through vulnerability - commitment is proven not through perfection, but in affection through imperfection.