Illustration of a bat, rabbit, and bear dancing atop a book, against a starry sky, with a red candle lit.

Embracing Duende: Poetry for the Winter Solstice

In the quiet moments of winter, I often find myself wondering if the sun will ever return. It's akin to the uncertainty that accompanies the act of writing poetry. Will inspiration strike again? The parallels between the ebb and flow of daylight and the muses can be both fascinating and daunting, and perhaps you've felt this too.

As I sit at my kitchen table, celebrating the Yule, I'm struck by the symbolism of the year's turning once more. It's the longest night and the shortest day in the Northern Hemisphere, as as our pole reaches its maximum tilt away from the sun.
black and white illustration of sun rays and pine trees
Born on a summer solstice, I used to proudly declare that my birthday boasted the longest day of the year—a childhood interpretation before grasping that it measures daylight, not temporal duration. With time, I've come to cherish the longest night just as much.

The winter solstice marks the shift in astronomical seasons, a day to honor fire and light, life and death, the rising sun, and the moon—an ancient celebration echoing through the ages.

In this post, we delve into the concept of duende, explore a winter solstice writing experiment, and savor a collection of enigmatic, shuddering poems to kindle wintry moods.

Duende on My Mind

Today, I ponder what I crave and express gratitude for the gift of life—for your life and mine.

My thoughts are drawn to Federico García Lorca, the poet who has lingered in my mind all week. Specifically, I'm immersed in his reflections on duende, a term he introduced as "a simple lesson on the buried spirit of saddened Spain."

"Duende," Spanish for elf or hobgoblin, becomes Lorca's label for a hidden, shuddering, fully alive energy inherent in all the arts—a "mysterious force which everyone feels and no philosopher has explained."

Lorca suggests that duende emerges alongside the specter of death, stirring the soul precisely because of the existence of pain. Tracy K. Smith explores how Lorca's concept is intricately connected to survival.

photo of Lorca with a piano in Granada In his "Theory and Play of the Duende," Lorca writes:

"In every other country death is an ending. It appears and they close the curtains. Not in Spain. In Spain they open them. Many Spaniards live indoors till the day they die and are carried into the sun."

Duende resides at the precipice of survival, a place where many of us find ourselves as we approach the third year of the pandemic—navigating immense grief and daily losses that continue to reshape our lives.

A Writing Experiment for Winter Solstice:

chalk drawing of a sun

Can you recall drawing or painting the sun, flames, or the moon as a child?

What lingers in your memory? The movement of your hand? How your drawing transformed the blank page?

Hold onto that feeling. Open your notebook, set a timer, and let your pen move without judgment. There's no right or wrong way to do this—it's an offering, not a grant application.

The next time you encounter the sun, share what you've written. It's not about being "good"; it's about sharing a piece of yourself.

Poems to Read on the Winter Solstice

Lorca asserted that "The magic power of a poem consists in it always being filled with duende." These poems, gathered for the winter mood, carry that enchanting essence. Consider sharing one with someone today.

1. "Where There's Ice" by Paul Celan

(translated by Pierre Joris)

Where there’s ice, it’s cool for two.
For two: so I let you come.
A breath as of fire was around you—
You came from where the rose is.

2. "After the Winter" by Claude McKay

Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
And against the morning’s white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love,

3. "Winter Solstice" by R. Erica Doyle

everything that made you
ends here.
the first sound
of your whole life
ebbs and dips
in a green line burned
across your last hope...

4. "Winter Solstice" by Michael McClure

W
I
T
H
I
N
endless space
in tiny explosions of gasoline
my consciousness hardens into a wall.
I AM SEPARATE
from plum blossoms and mountains:

5. "How From Politeness To the Trees" by Cecily Parks

Solstice dabbles behind the hills, whitefire at the horizon well into what should be evening, well into after, meting out to what should be the privacy of night illumination enough to fray the sky.

6. "Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

7. "Wild Nights—Wild Nights!" by Emily Dickinson

Wild Nights – Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

8. "There's a Certain Slant of Light" by Emily Dickinson

There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –

9. "Burning the Old Year" by Naomi Shihab Nye

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

10. "Again a Solstice" by Jennifer Chang

It is not good to think
of everything as a mistake. I asked
for bacon in my sandwich, and then

I asked for more. Mistake.
I told you the truth about my scar:

11. "City That Does Not Sleep" by Federico García Lorca

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the stars.

The sun will return, and you will write again (and again and again)

As the nights gradually shorten, and the days lengthen, the sun's return becomes inevitable. In the United States, summer solstice arrives amid LGBTQ celebrations of pride and festivals of resistance.

Lorca, a gay socialist poet, met his tragic end in 1936, executed by Spanish fascists during the Spanish Civil War. Yet, as the sun returns, let's give thanks for the legacies of our ancestors and kin, connected through both blood and ink.

As the nights shorten, let's tend to the seedlings of change in our lives. May we turn to "the magic power of a poem" to find solace, dream, and truly live while we're alive.

P.S. What if keeping a notebook could be a way to rest? Join the waitlist now for our upcoming offering, Keeping a Notebook. This foundational experience for poets of any level will guide you through the powerful practice of keeping a notebook, allowing you to start anew on the page. Just like the sun, and the way you remembered drawing it—it all comes back again.

Never miss a blog post. Sign up for Spellworks email updates.

Unsubscribe anytime. We'll never sell your info.