The dark wood after the dark wood: the cold after cold in April's false November. In that second worser place: more gone, less there, but in that lurid present present, cast and held, rooted, kept, like some old false-berried yew. Just against; the door leading to preferment shut; no longer believing in still, by some, few means, method, could be, but for the bad day set, left, leaning atop bad day. Out- and un- ranked, toothached, wronged— rankled corruptive thing! Ill-wishing, in-iquitous, clipped, up-hoped, stripped: just plain: thin. Dare thy commit: commit this final fatal sin: God my God, I am displeased by spring.
“Seems the wrack of not living up to/meeting spring (much less National Poetry Month) is a recurrent theme for me. This is last April’s version/stunted bud. I think of it as a little Hopkinsesque, but it was in fact inspired/shaped by Donne’s discontent, that of the spring of 1608(!), (after the king dashed his hopes of getting a state job). Perhaps the part of the tradition I feel closest to...”
—Olena Kalytiak Davis