The Page Called Qanik
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| Image by BBC |
The Page Called Qanik
At dawn the world exhales qanik,
feather-light flakes drifting down like unspoken vows,
each crystal a syllable the sky has practiced for centuries.
They gather into aput, the honest word for snow,
a white grammar rewriting the tired verbs of yesterday.
Underfoot lies maujaq, soft and deep as a held breath,
a cushion for the future’s first uncertain steps.
Powdered hollows whisper pukak, granular sugar-snow,
the quiet residue of storms that learned patience.
Across the open plain, wind lifts piqsirpoq,
drifting snow braided into ghostly veils,
as if the land itself were pulling a clean sheet
over the restless dreams of last night.
Beyond the river’s skin of sirmiq (hard ice)
and its tender rim of nilak (freshwater ice),
the morning opens a door called now.
Even utuqaq, old snow hardened by time,
softens at the edges, loosening its grip on memory.
Everything begins again in qanik-light silence—
a language of white, saying: step forward,
the page is blank, and it knows your name.
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I love that you ran with different words for snow, Chris. Therfe is so much to comment on. My favourite lines are:
ReplyDelete‘feather-light flakes drifting down like unspoken vows,
each crystal a syllable the sky has practiced for centuries’
and
‘drifting snow braided into ghostly veils,
as if the land itself were pulling a clean sheet
over the restless dreams of last night’.
As poets, we welcome blank pages, always hoping they know our names.
"the honest word for snow,
ReplyDeletea white grammar rewriting the tired verbs of yesterday."
OMG! This is awesome
🎇much love
Chris, for a person who is intimately acquainted with the many moods of snow, your poem is a delight. Like you said, we're old friends ("it knows your name".)
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed this fresh and varied perspective on snow immensely, Chris!
ReplyDelete...this is lynn, anonymously
DeleteSnow's snow. Call it what you will. Ick. (Ick the snow, not your poem, which is WOWZA good.)
ReplyDeleteChris, this is an epic write .. using the Inuit words, brilliant. This line will linger a while in my mind: "The morning opens a door called now."
ReplyDelete