Look—
a gate
between two trees,
pretending to be a door.
Snowflakes fall sideways,
knocking.
I used to think of home
as the sound of my name being called from the next room,
forever.
Or a mistranslation of her name
called again,
and again,
and again.
I watch as you take another step
and so does the door.
Everything on earth was made to be crossed over
then out.
There is no manual for memory
—no place to put
your hands.
Snowflakes freeze into hail to assault you properly
as the greying twilight slices through the earth,
bisecting you.
Do you feel that?
In another time someone is holding
your hand.
Time was invented to give the mind something to hold.
(Dreams are the mind’s way of
communicating hunger.)
In Korea,
old men are dying,
and children are learning
how to speak.
The days die first for others.
Tell me,
is it morning, where you are?
No. The night is eating its own tail.
Do you know where you are?
Yes. I am in the dark.
Light refuses to touch me, still.
Still?
Still.
You used to be still, before I met you.
That sounds true.
Up ahead,
smoke rises from the snow-blank
page.
In winter, fire comes as a relief,
not a warning.
Smoke means someone lives here.
Follow the trail of singed air.
Look now,
your body is carving a snow trench,
hot breaths floating skyward,
where morning is in the fetal position,
waiting.
50 paces ahead—a door.
Also, forward.
Jen Colclough’s debut poetry collection, Our Little Agonies, is slated for publication in May 2025 by Montreal Publishing Co. More at jencolclough.com.
Questions and Answers
Do you use any resources that a young poet would find useful (e.g. books, films, art, websites, etc.)?
For me, writing poetry—or anything at all, really—is a visual process. I see images and movements before I understand the form a particular piece may take. Because of this, I find films and film analysis immensely helpful. I pay close attention to things like set design, lighting, points of focus, etc. I went to see Greta Gerwig’s adaptation of Little Women three times in theatres because I found myself captivated by her ability to infuse warmth and playfulness into every scene. By delving deeper into the ways in which concepts and themes are portrayed onscreen, I have a host of visual cues and references to draw on when developing a new piece. It helps me to think of myself as a set designer. Since I know the basic plot and themes of the work I intend to create, all that remains is cultivating a space in which these elements can breathe.
As a published writer, what are your tips or words of motivation for the aspiring poet?
Become comfortable with receiving feedback and criticism but do not be afraid to disregard it when you must. Seeking outside opinions and interpretations is an integral part of developing your craft, but not all perspectives will serve you. Only you know what your poems must do. If you feel that someone’s input is counterintuitive to your intent or preferred style, you are under no obligation to accommodate their views.
What inspired or motivated you to write this poem?
I wrote this poem during the Covid-19 pandemic, when I found myself taking longer and longer walks through the snow, particularly in the evenings. During the pandemic, isolation mixed with helplessness as quarantine dragged on, and several of my family members suffered from poor health and hospitalizations. These uncontrollable circumstances made hope difficult. Writing this poem was a way for me to externalize the sensation of upheaval and stunted progress while the imagined future was pushed further and further away. At the same time, I believe that artists and writers are obligated to engage with hope wherever possible in their works. Pain for pain’s sake is exhibitionism, not art. It was important to me that the poem end with the small hope that forward movement can be valuable on its own, regardless of whether the promise land is reached.
How did your writing process unfold around this poem? How did you write, edit, and refine it?
Overall, the poem was composed rather quickly. I finished writing the first draft in a single evening and returned to it over time to smooth the transitions between ideas. Because this particular piece is centred around nature, I wanted the experience of reading it to mimic the sensation of snow as it accumulates on uneven ground. To achieve this, I played around with the length and positioning of each stanza. The two alternating columns begin as an internal monologue and evolve into an open dialogue with an unknown figure. Thinking back to my many nights walking among the trees, the back-and-forth structure of the lines is meant to imitate footsteps as the speaker treads closer to the elusive doorway.