In her diary, Sylvia Plath
wrote on the 7th of July 1950: “It is raining. I am tempted to write
a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy
rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation”.
If I try to reference each
time a poet, a writer, a painter, a composer, or a photographer were driven by
the weather towards their pen, their brush or their instrument I could end up
with a PhD thesis. Artists are tender sensitive beings, they are more human
than uncreative humans thus are more effected, more influenced and stimulated
by weather, they belong more to this earth, they feel more, they suffer more, they
cry bitterly, they laugh hysterically, there is never an in between.
This doesn’t mean artists
prefer fine weather, on the contrary, many find their emotions dulled by warmth
and comfort, many prefer raging storms, flooding rain, wild winds.. the extreme
can be calming, resembling the unrest always dwelling within them.
Autumn - by Alexander Pushkin
October has arrived - the
woods have tossed
Their final leaves from
naked branches;
A breath of autumn chill -
the road begins to freeze,
The stream still murmurs
as it passes by the mill,
This is my time: I am not
fond of spring;
The tiresome thaw, the
stench, the mud - spring sickens me.
The blood ferments, and
yearning binds the heart and mind..
With cruel winter I am
better satisfied,
