Poetry is a great way to express the emotions that come with the season.
This collection of January poems offers a range of styles and themes, from funny to inspirational, short to long, and everything in between.
Whether you’re looking for a poem to make you laugh or a heartfelt verse to commemorate a special occasion, these poems on January have got you covered.
So grab yourself a warm cup of hot cocoa and get ready to embrace the chill of winter with these poetic musings.
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Funny January Poems
Get ready to laugh and chuckle with these interesting poems about January that capture the humor of January’s chilly weather.
1. A Celebration
by William Carlos
A middle-northern March, now as always–
gusts from the South broken against cold winds–
but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide,
it moves–not into April–into a second March,
the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping
upon the mold: this is the shadow projects the tree
upward causing the sun to shine in his sphere.
So we will put on our pink felt hat–new last year!
–newer this by virtue of brown eyes turning back
the seasons–and let us walk to the orchid-house,
see the flowers will take the prize tomorrow
at the Palace.
Stop here, these are our oleanders.
When they are in bloom–
You would waste words
It is clearer to me than if the pink
were on the branch. It would be a searching in
a colored cloud to reveal that which now, huskless,
shows the very reason for their being.
And these the orange-trees, in blossom–no need
to tell with this weight of perfume in the air.
If it were not so dark in this shed one could better
see the white.
It is that very perfume
has drawn the darkness down among the leaves.
Do I speak clearly enough?
It is this darkness reveals that which darkness alone
loosens and sets spinning on waxen wings–
not the touch of a finger-tip, not the motion
of a sigh. A too heavy sweetness proves
its own caretaker.
And here are the orchids!
Never having seen
such gaiety I will read these flowers for you:
This is an odd January, died–in Villon’s time.
Snow, this is and this the stain of a violet
grew in that place the spring that foresaw its own doom.
And this, a certain July from Iceland:
a young woman of that place
breathed it toward the South. It took root there.
The color ran true but the plant is small.
This falling spray of snow-flakes is
a handful of dead Februaries
prayed into flower by Rafael Arevalo Martinez
Here’s that old friend who
went by my side so many years: this full, fragile
head of veined lavender. Oh that April
that we first went with our stiff lusts
leaving the city behind, out to the green hill–
May, they said she was. A hand for all of us:
this branch of blue butterflies tied to this stem.
June is a yellow cup I’ll not name; August
the over-heavy one. And here are–
russet and shiny, all but March. And March?
Flowers are a tiresome pastime.
One has a wish to shake them from their pots
root and stem, for the sun to gnaw.
Walk out again into the cold and saunter home
to the fire. This day has blossomed long enough.
I have wiped out the red night and lit a blaze
instead which will at least warm our hands
and stir up the talk.
I think we have kept fair time.
Time is a green orchard.
2. Hello January
by Dr. Jim Martin
Hello January, you’ve finally arrived
Another year we have all survived.
Tell me please, if you can
What will be? – How should I plan?
Do you see more of the status quo?
Will more freedom we soon know?
Will our economy settle down?
Will there be reason to wear a frown?
If only these things and much, much more
We could from you successfully implore!
If we could in the future see
What would be our destiny?
I sit here in my solitude
And wonder if you’ll ever my thoughts intrude.
I anxiously hope that I’ll not long wait
Before my concerns you’ll contemplate!
3. January 1st
by Cj Krieger
After a long night
I smiled a bit
I havent peed
Since last year!
4. A January Night
by Paula Goldsmith
I was reading by a lamp,
a book I had gotten for Christmas.
It started off with loving characters,
what a wonderful gift.
I think I need a cup of hot tea,
this will keep me and my soul company.
A cold breeze had filled the room,
would a cup of hot tea be enough for this winter’s night.
As I glanced out my window at a full moon,
the snow was starting to come down.
The wind was picking up,
is there a storm a coming.
Then the lights start to flicker,
yes~a storm is here.
As I read my new book,
the characters were turning into not such nice people.
With each hour the storm was getting worse,
now the winds were really howling.
Once again I looked out my window,
the snow was getting deep~the moon was a dim light.
I must have dosed off,
when a loud bang struck my house.
Was I dreaming,
I must be.
The floor started to sing with squeaks,
was there someone in my house.
I ran to hide behind the couch,
now am I crazy was running through my head.
I heard someone say,
anyone home~anyone home.
I did not want to look,
I did not know what to say.
As I peeked around my couch,
my neighbors I did see.
Turns out they hit some ice and then my tree,
now we all sat down for a cup of hot tea.
by William Carlos Williams
Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
You will not succeed. I am
bound more to my sentences
the more you batter at me
to follow you.
And the wind,
as before, fingers perfectly
its derisive music.
by Robert L. Hinshaw
Time to figure consarned taxes again
And Christmas bills come due giving me pain
Let’s delete January
And start with February
January has come to be my bane
7. It’s Burns Nicht 25th January
by Robert Davidson
It’s Burns Nicht 25th January
Jean, Jean wis young an’ alive till Ah gied her tatties and neeps;
Noo she’s bein’ seek as a dug, it fairly gies me the creeps.
Bonnie Mary O’ Argyle took a trip tae the Brig O’ Doon,
She took a dook oaf the parapet, ended up nearly bein’ drooned!
Wee sleakit, cooerin’, timorous beastie, ye must think it a sin!
Aw the lassies a’ ever kent, wanted tae stab me wi’ a pin.
Blythe Hae a’ Been on Yon Hill, where a Tippling Ballad ah Wrote;
Gude Ale Keeps the Heart Aboon, when ye drink an awfy lote.
Famous January Poems
Discover the classic and famous poems about January that have defeated the might of time and still inspire readers today.
1. The Snow Man
by The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
The days will rally, wreathing
Their crazy tarantelle;
And you must go on breathing,
But I’ll be safe in hell.
Like January weather,
The years will bite and smart,
And pull your bones together
To wrap your chattering heart.
The pretty stuff you’re made of
Will crack and crease and dry.
The thing you are afraid of
Will look from every eye.
You will go faltering after
The bright, imperious line,
And split your throat on laughter,
And burn your eyes with brine.
You will be frail and musty
With peering, furtive head,
Whilst I am young and lusty
Among the roaring dead.
by Rebecca Hey
Keen blows the bitter spirit of the North,
And, like a warrior foil’d, with powerless beam
The sun eyes wistfully the frost-bound stream,
As if he long’d, though vainly, to call forth
His by-gone strength, that he might deck the earth
In all her summer beauty, and set free
River and brooklet, till, towards the sea
Onward they bounded with melodious mirth.
But many a storm, ere that may be, shall blow,
And many a cloud frown darkling o’er the sky;
And be it so, if but affection’s glow
Play round the lips, and brighten in the eye,
When round the hearth long-sever’d friends do meet,
(So ancient usage claims,) the opening to greet.
by Edwin Morgan
My shadow —
I woke to a wind swirling the curtains light and dark
and the birds twittering on the roofs, I lay cold
in the early light in my room high over London.
What fear was it that made the wind sound like a fire
so that I got up and looked out half-asleep
at the calm rows of street-lights fading far below?
Only the wind blew.
But in the dream I woke from, you
came running through the traffic, tugging me, clinging
to my elbow, your eyes spoke
what I could not grasp —
Nothing, if you were here!
The wind of the early quiet
merges slowly now with a thousand rolling wheels.
The lights are out, the air is loud.
It is an ordinary January day.
My shadow, do you hear the streets?
Are you at my heels? Are you here?
And I throw back the sheets.
5. A Calendar of Sonnets: January
by Helen Hunt Jackson
O Winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire,
What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom turn
Dismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urn
Of death! Far sooner in midsummer tire
The streams than under ice. June could not hire
Her roses to forego the strength they learn
In sleeping on thy breast. No fires can burn
The bridges thou dost lay where men desire
In vain to build. O Heart, when Love’s sun goes
To northward, and the sounds of singing cease,
Keep warm by inner fires, and rest in peace.
Sleep on content, as sleeps the patient rose.
Walk boldly on the white untrodden snows,
The winter is the winter’s own release.
6. January Mist
by Sandra Fowler
Sometimes at night I hear small birds lament.
Dark notes that seem to second moon’s descent.
Cold is the color of a deep regret,
An etude perfected by winterset.
The world was music and it turned us round.
Stirred by the subtle atmospheric sound,
You gently sketched a snowflake on my face
Which shall be mine till light has left this place.
Such solace has the power to outlast time,
To lock a small bird’s elegy in rhyme.
Somewhere beyond the January mist,
The magic of our landscape still exists.
7. Outside History
by Eavan Boland
These are outsiders, always.
these iron inklings of an Irish January,
whose light happened
thousands of years before
our pain did; they are, they have always been
They keep their distance.
Under them remains
a place where you found
you were human, and
a landscape in which you know you are mortal.
And a time to choose between them.
I have chosen:
out of myth in history I move to be
part of that ordeal
who darkness is
only now reaching me from those fields,
those rivers, those roads clotted as
firmaments with the dead.
How slowly they die
as we kneel beside them, whisper in their ear.
And we are too late.
We are always too late.
Beautiful January Poems
Experience the beauty of January through these poetic masterpieces that showcase the season’s stunning landscapes and natural wonders. Here are some beautiful poems about January.
by Ruby Archer
The snow is diamond for a fairy’s feet,
Blithely and bonnily she trips along,
Her lips a-carol with a merry song,
And in her eyes the meaning. “Life is sweet!”
The rhythm of youth is in her pulses’ beat,
The lissome form is beautiful and strong,
The happy heart is innocent of wrong.
Young Hope incarnate seems the earth to greet,
How fair is she—just pinker than the snow.
Behold—a roguish coyness in her face!
Ah see—a spray of saucy mistletoe
Is nestling in her hair. A chase! A chase!
A gleeful laugh,—the vision bright has paled,
Is lost in clouds her laughing breath exhaled.
2. How Snow Is Deep on the Ground
by Kenneth Patchen
The snow is deep on the ground.
Always the light falls
Softly down on the hair of my belovèd.
This is a good world.
The war has failed.
God shall not forget us.
Who made the snow waits where love is.
Only a few go mad.
The sky moves in its whiteness
Like the withered hand of an old king.
God shall not forget us.
Who made the sky knows of our love.
The snow is beautiful on the ground.
And always the lights of heaven glow
Softly down on the hair of my belovèd.
by Charmaine J. Forde
The first month of the year,
A perfect time to start all over again,
Changing energies and deserting old moods,
New beginnings, new attitudes.
4. I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
by Pablo Neruda
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it’s you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
Short January Poems
Sometimes less is more, and these short poetries about January prove just that. Enjoy their brevity and the powerful emotions they convey.
1. In January
by Ted Kooser
Only one cell in the frozen hive of night
is lit, or so it seems to us:
this Vietnamese café, with its oily light,
its odors whose colorful shapes are like flowers.
Laughter and talking, the tick of chopsticks.
Beyond the glass, the wintry city
creaks like an ancient wooden bridge.
A great wind rushes under all of us.
The bigger the window, the more it trembles.
2. I’m January
by Annette Wynne
I’m January bringing you
A year of days—all brand, brand new;
I step upon the frosty ground.
When chimes and sleighbells ring around;
You welcome me and children sing,
And joy comes into everything.
I bring you love and lots of cheer,
And work and friends for all the year.
3. The Masque of Months
by Edgar Fawcett
With bright or sombre gear,
With smile or frown or song,
In a masque the months go gliding
First January is here,
With eyes that keenly glow—
A frost-mailed warrior striding
A shadowy steed of snow…
by R.S. Thomas
The fox drags its wounded belly
Over the snow, the crimson seeds
Of blood burst with a mild explosion,
Soft as excrement, bold as roses.
Over the snow that feels no pity,
Whose white hands can give no healing,
The fox drags its wounded belly.
5. If It Were January All the Year
by Annette Wynne
If it were January all the year,
I wonder if I’d like it here,
Finding every place I go—
Snow, snow, always snow!
Snow upon the lane and street,
Snow wherever children meet,
And the houses made of snow,
And the school where children go.
Do you think I’d grow to be
A child quite different from me,
Who’d never seen a thing but snow?
Would I be an Eskimo?
Long January Poems
For those who prefer a more detailed exploration of January’s themes and motifs, these long poetries about January offer a deeper dive into the season.
1. January Jumps
by George Barker
January jumps about
in the frying pan
trying to heat
his frozen feet
like a Canadian.
February scuttles under
any dish’s lid
and she thinks she’s dry because she’s
thoroughly well hid
but it still rains all month long
and it always did.
March sits in the bath tub
with the taps turned on.
Hot and cold, cold or not,
Has the Winter gone?
In like a lion, out like a lamb
March on, march on, march on.
April slips about
and sometimes out
sometimes sheltering from a little
shower of bright rain
in an empty milk bottle
then dashing out again.
May, she hides nowhere,
nowhere at all,
Proud as a peacock
walking by a wall.
The Maytime O the Maytime,
full of leaf and flower.
The Maytime O the Maytime
is the loveliest of all.
June discards his shirt and
trousers by the stream
and takes the first dip of the year
into a jug of cream.
June is the gay time
of every girl and boy
who run about and sing and shout
in pardonable joy.
July by the sea
sits dabbling with sand
letting it run out of
her rather lazy hand,
and sometimes she sadly
thinks: “As I sit here
ah, more than half the year is gone,
the evanescent year.”
August by an emperor
was given his great name.
It is gold and purple
like a Hall of Fame.
(I have known it rather cold
and wettish, all the same.)
September lies in shadows
of the fading summer
hearing, in the distance,
the silver horns of winter
and not very far off
the coming autumn drummer.
apples on the tree,
the Partridge in the Wood and
the big winds at sea,
the mud beginning in the lane
the berries bright and red
and the big tree wildly
tossing its old head.
November, when the fires
love to burn, and leaves
flit about and fill the air
where the old tree grieves.
its name is like a star
glittering on many things that were
but few things that are.
Twelfth and last December.
a few weeks away
we hear the silver bells
of the stag and the sleigh
flying from the tundras
far far away
bringing to us all the gift
of our Christmas Day.
by Patrick Kavanagh
We have tested and tasted too much, lover-
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder.
But here in the Advent-darkened room
Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea
Of penance will charm back the luxury
Of a child’s soul, we’ll return to Doom
The knowledge we stole but could not use.
And the newness that was in every stale thing
When we looked at it as children: the spirit-shocking
Wonder in a black slanting Ulster hill
Or the prophetic astonishment in the tedious talking
Of an old fool will awake for us and bring
You and me to the yard gate to watch the whins
And the bog-holes, cart-tracks, old stables where Time begins.
O after Christmas we’ll have no need to go searching
For the difference that sets an old phrase burning-
We’ll hear it in the whispered argument of a churning
Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching.
And we’ll hear it among decent men too
Who barrow dung in gardens under trees,
Wherever life pours ordinary plenty.
Won’t we be rich, my love and I, and
God we shall not ask for reason’s payment,
The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges
Nor analyse God’s breath in common statement.
We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages
Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hour-
And Christ comes with a January flower.
3. Ode Written on the First of January
by Robert Southey
Come melancholy Moralizer—come!
Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;
With me engarland now
The SEPULCHRE OF TIME!
Come Moralizer to the funeral song!
I pour the dirge of the Departed Days,
For well the funeral song
Befits this solemn hour.
But hark! even now the merry bells ring round
With clamorous joy to welcome in this day,
This consecrated day,
To Mirth and Indolence.
Mortal! whilst Fortune with benignant hand
Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness,
Whilst her unclouded sun
Illumes thy summer day,
Canst thou rejoice—rejoice that Time flies fast?
That Night shall shadow soon thy summer sun?
That swift the stream of Years
Rolls to Eternity?
If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish,
If Power be thine, remember what thou art—
Remember thou art Man,
And Death thine heritage!
Hast thou known Love? does Beauty’s better sun
Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile,
Her eye all eloquence,
Her voice all harmony?
Oh state of happiness! hark how the gale
Moans deep and hollow o’er the leafless grove!
Winter is dark and cold—
Where now the charms of Spring?
Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene
In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stol’d Maid
With stern and frowning front
Appals the shuddering soul?
And would’st thou bid me court her faery form
When, as she sports her in some happier mood,
Her many-colour’d robes
Dance varying to the Sun?
Ah vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road
Leads o’er the barren mountain’s storm-vext height,
With anxious gaze survey
The fruitful far-off vale.
Oh there are those who love the pensive song
To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant!
There are who at this hour
Will love to contemplate!
For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time,
Rejoicing when the fading orb of day
Is sunk again in night,
That one day more is gone.
And he who bears Affliction’s heavy load
With patient piety, well pleas’d he knows
The World a pilgrimage,
The Grave the inn of rest.
4. Letter Written During a January
by Anne Sexton
It is snowing, grotesquely snowing
upon the small faces of the dead.
Those dear loudmouths, gone for over a year,
buried side by side
like little wrens.
But why should I complain?
The dead turn over casually,
Good! No visitors today.
My window, which is not a grave,
is dark with my fierce concentration
and too much snowing
and too much silence.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs,
no smells, no shouts nor traffic.
When I speak
my own voice shocks me.
I have invented a lie,
there is no other day but Monday.
It seems reasonable to pretend
that I could change the day
like a pair of socks.
To tell the truth
days are all the same size
and words aren’t much company.
If I were sick, I’d be a child,
tucked in under the woolens, sipping my broth.
As it is,
the days are not worth grabbing
or lying about.
It would be pleasant to be drunk:
faithless to my own tongue and hands,
giving up the boundaries
for the heroic gin.
is the term I think of,
neither cool nor warm,
without a head or a foot.
To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
I will try it shortly.
twenty eight men aboard a damaged radar tower
foundered down seventy miles off the coast.
Immediately their hearts slammed shut.
The storm would not cough them up.
Today they are whispering over Sonar.
what do you say?
Aside from the going down, the awful wrench,
The pulleys and hooks and the black tongue . . .
What are your headquarters?
Are they kind?
It must be Friday by now.
I admit I have been lying.
Days don’t freeze
And to say that the snow has quietness in it
is to ignore the possibilities of the word.
Only the tree has quietness in it;
quiet as a pair of antlers
waiting on the cabin wall,
quiet as the crucifix,
pounded out years ago like a handmade shoe.
told an elephant to stand still.
That’s why trees remain quiet all winter.
They’re not going anywhere.
where are your letters?
The mailman is an impostor.
He is actually my grandfather.
He floats far off in the storm
with his nicotine mustache and a bagful of nickels.
His legs stumble through
baskets of eyelashes.
Like all the dead
he picks up his disguise,
shakes it off and slowly pulls down the shade,
fading out like an old movie.
Now he is gone
as you are gone.
But he belongs to me like lost baggage.
5. Brown’s Descent
by Brown’s Descent
Brown lived at such a lofty farm
That everyone for miles could see
His lantern when he did his chores
In winter after half-past three.
And many must have seen him make
His wild descent from there one night,
’Cross lots, ’cross walls, ’cross everything,
Describing rings of lantern light.
Between the house and barn the gale
Got him by something he had on
And blew him out on the icy crust
That cased the world, and he was gone!
Walls were all buried, trees were few:
He saw no stay unless he stove
A hole in somewhere with his heel.
But though repeatedly he strove
And stamped and said things to himself,
And sometimes something seemed to yield,
He gained no foothold, but pursued
His journey down from field to field.
Sometimes he came with arms outspread
Like wings, revolving in the scene
Upon his longer axis, and
With no small dignity of mien.
Faster or slower as he chanced,
Sitting or standing as he chose,
According as he feared to risk
His neck, or thought to spare his clothes,
He never let the lantern drop.
And some exclaimed who saw afar
The figures he described with it,
”I wonder what those signals are
Brown makes at such an hour of night!
He’s celebrating something strange.
I wonder if he’s sold his farm,
Or been made Master of the Grange.
He reeled, he lurched, he bobbed, he checked;
He fell and made the lantern rattle
(But saved the light from going out.)
So half-way down he fought the battle
Incredulous of his own bad luck.
And then becoming reconciled
To everything, he gave it up
And came down like a coasting child.
“Well—I—be—” that was all he said,
As standing in the river road,
He looked back up the slippery slope
(Two miles it was) to his abode.
Sometimes as an authority
On motor-cars, I’m asked if I
Should say our stock was petered out,
And this is my sincere reply:
Yankees are what they always were.
Don’t think Brown ever gave up hope
Of getting home again because
He couldn’t climb that slippery slope;
Or even thought of standing there
Until the January thaw
Should take the polish off the crust.
He bowed with grace to natural law,
And then went round it on his feet,
After the manner of our stock;
Not much concerned for those to whom,
At that particular time o’clock,
It must have looked as if the course
He steered was really straight away
From that which he was headed for—
Not much concerned for them, I say:
No more so than became a man—
And politician at odd seasons.
I’ve kept Brown standing in the cold
While I invested him with reasons;
But now he snapped his eyes three times;
Then shook his lantern, saying, “Ile’s
’Bout out!” and took the long way home
By road, a matter of several miles.
by Ellwood Roberts
The short midwinter days are here,
The nights are frosty now and chill—
The solemn midnight of the year—
The snow lies deep on vale and hill.
No longer runs the streamlet nigh,
The ice has bound its waters fast;
An Arctic wind is sweeping by,
The bare trees shiver in the blast.
How changed the Schuylkill’s tide! no more
It sparkles in the noonday light;
The ice extends from shore to shore,
Its strength increasing, day and night.
The skaters o’er its surface fly,
In rhythmic motion, all the day,
While dark clouds sweep across the sky,
Foreboding tempests on the way.
And soon we see the storm begin,
All day the snowflakes scurry past,
All night we hear the tempest’s din,
The forests bend beneath the blast.
In whirling clouds the snow is hurled,
Along the hillside, down the glen;
Another day the whole bright world
Is shut by drifts beyond our ken.
But soon the sun resumes his sway,
His noontide beams are warm and bright;
The stubborn ice-bridge yields by day,
Though drear and sombre falls the night.
Alternate thaw and storm and cold,
With snowdrifts deep and changeful sky,
The earth in chill embrace enfold—
And so the month goes slowly by.
Midwinter days and nights so drear,
With storm-clouds sweeping o’er the sky—
The solemn midnight of the year
Soon pass and leave no token nigh.
Bare trees that quake beneath the blast,
Will yet be clothed in leafage bright,
And days so chill—the Winter past—
Be bathed in floods of Spring-time light.
January Poems That Rhyme
There’s something about rhyme that makes poetry all the more enjoyable. These poems about January with rhyming words will leave you feeling satisfied.
by Hilaire Belloc
It freezes- all across a soundless sky
The birds go home. The governing dark’s begun:
The steadfast dark that waits not for a sun;
The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die.
Death, with his evil finger to his lip,
Leers in at human windows, turning spy
To learn the country where his rule shall lie
When he assumes perpetual generalship.
The undefeated enemy, the chill
That shall benumb the voiceful earth at last,
Is master of our moment, and has bound
The viewless wind it-self. There is no sound.
It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast.
It freezes; and the graven twigs are still.
2. Orchard Trees, January
by Richard Wilbur
It’s not the case, though some might wish it so
Who from a window watch the blizzard blow
White riot through their branches vague and stark,
That they keep snug beneath their pelted bark.
They take affliction in until it jells
To crystal ice between their frozen cells,
And each of them is inwardly a vault
Of jewels rigorous and free of fault,
Unglimpsed until in May it gently bears
A sudden crop of green-pronged solitaires.
3. Sonnet 97: How like a winter hath my absence been
by William Shakespeare
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness everywhere!
And yet this time remov’d was summer’s time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me
But hope of orphans and unfather’d fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.
4. January Morn
by Nelda Hartmann
Bare branches of each tree
on this chilly January morn
look so cold so forlorn.
Gray skies dip ever so low
left from yesterday’s dusting of snow.
Yet in the heart of each tree
waiting for each who wait to see
new life as warm sun and breeze will blow,
like magic, unlock springs sap to flow,
buds, new leaves, then blooms will grow.
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
For January I give you vests of skins,
And mighty fires in hall, and torches lit;
Chambers and happy beds with all things fit;
Smooth silken sheets, rough furry counterpanes;
And sweetmeats baked; and one that deftly spins
Warm arras; and Douay cloth, and store of it;
And on this merry manner still to twit
The wind, when most his mastery the wind wins.
Or issuing forth at seasons in the day,
Ye’ll fling soft handfuls of the fair white snow
Among the damsels standing round, in play:
And when you all are tired and all aglow,
Indoors again the court shall hold its sway,
And the free Fellowship continue so.
January Poems for Children
Introduce your little ones to the joys of poetry with these whimsical and child-friendly January poems for kids that are unique.
1. The Months
by The Months
January brings the snow,
makes our feet and fingers glow.
February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.
March brings breezes loud and shrill,
stirs the dancing daffodil.
April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daises at our feet.
May brings flocks of pretty lambs,
Skipping by their fleecy damns.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children’s hand with posies.
Hot july brings cooling showers,
Apricots and gillyflowers.
August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.
Warm september brings the fruit,
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.
Fresh October brings the pheasents,
Then to gather nuts is pleasent.
Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves are whirling fast.
Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.
January is children’s laughter,
an endless stream of thoughts
and coniferous wreaths.
Homemade food, morning
rush and loud voices.
It is listening to Chopin’s nocturnes,
and buying flowers for yourself.
Falling from fatigue, procrastinating
until the last minute, and burning incense.
It is the smell of walnuts and vanilla cupcakes.
Deserted streets and Shakespearean tragedies.
Spilled coffee on a book and a sudden flood of inspiration.
The dim light of the stars, forgiveness
and a smile that warms the heart.
3. One Third of the Calendar
by Ogden Nash
In January everything freezes.
We have two children. Both are she’ses.
This is our January rule:
One girl in bed, and one in school.
In February the blizzard whirls.
We own a pair of little girls.
Blessings upon of each the head —-
The one in school and the one in bed.
March is the month of cringe and bluster.
Each of our children has a sister.
They cling together like Hansel and Gretel,
With their noses glued to the benzoin kettle.
April is made of impetuous waters
And doctors looking down throats of daughters.
If we had a son too, and a thoroughbred,
We’d have a horse,
And a boy,
And two girls
4. A January Morning
by A January Morning
The glittering roofs are still with frost; each worn
Black chimney builds into the quiet sky
Its curling pile to crumble silently.
Far out to westward on the edge of morn,
The slender misty city towers up-borne
Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue;
And yonder on those northern hills, the hue
Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn.
And here behind me come the woodmen’s sleighs
With shouts and clamorous squeakings; might and main
Up the steep slope the horses stamp and strain,
Urged on by hoarse-tongued drivers? cheeks ablaze,
Iced beards and frozen eyelids? team by team,
With frost-fringed flanks, and nostrils jetting steam.
January Poems for Adults
Poetry is not just for kids! These January poems for adults are geared towards adults and explore the more complex emotions and experiences associated with the season.
1. The Wolf Moon of January
by Dennis Spilchuk
Neath the wolf-moon in the sky above the deep-freeze North,
Where the land is snow-covered and the air-filled with frost.
Are heard the echoes of wolves following nature’s course,
Throughout the valleys, and up and down the mountain slopes.
A cold wind whips in the land where temperatures dip
And trees crack, weighted down with snow, adhere to the slips.
Where wolves silhouetted by full-moonlight howl eerily,
Sending out reverberations of callings and warnings.
Then quickly, the pack unites to traverse the landscape,
In shadows, silently hunting and stalking their prey.
Within parameters of marked boundaries they defend,
Against predators encroaching onto their territory.
2. An Evening in Late January
Did you hear that…
I think the wind must be strong tonight.
It’s awfully chilly.
Let’s put one more log on the fire.
The moon looks bright tonight…
or perhaps the stars are just dimmer.
I forgot to call my father today.
I mustn’t forget in the morning.
He may need to be shoveled out.
I’ll lay out an extra pair of gloves.
Good night, darling.
3. January 1
by David Lehman
Some people confuse inspiration with lightning
not me I know it comes from the lungs and air
you breathe it in you breathe it out it circulates
it’s the breath of my being the wind across the face
of the waters yes but it’s also something that comes
at my command like a turkey club sandwich
with a cup of split pea soup or like tones
from Benny Goodman’s clarinet my clarinet
the language that never fails to respond
some people think you need to be pure of heart
not true it comes to the pure and impure alike
the patient and impatient the lovers the onanists
and the virgins you just need to be able to listen
and talk at the same time and you’ll hear it like
the long-delayed revelation at the end of the novel
which turns out to be something simple a traumatic
moment that fascinated us more when it was only
a fragment an old song a strange noise a mistake
of hearing a phone that wouldn’t stop ringing
4. January 1939
by Dylan Thomas
Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires,
Shall the blind horse sing sweeter?
Convenient bird and beast lie lodged to suffer
The supper and knives of a mood.
In the sniffed and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the year
That clouts the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms,
An enamoured man alone by the twigs of his eyes, two fires,
Camped in the drug-white shower of nerves and food,
Savours the lick of the times through a deadly wood of hair
In a wind that plucked a goose,
Nor ever, as the wild tongue breaks its tombs,
Rounds to look at the red, wagged root.
Because there stands, one story out of the bum city,
That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed sea
Secretly in statuary,
Shall I, struck on the hot and rocking street,
Not spin to stare at an old year
Toppling and burning in the muddle of towers and galleries
Like the mauled pictures of boys?
The salt person and blasted place
I furnish with the meat of a fable.
If the dead starve, their stomachs turn to tumble
An upright man in the antipodes
Or spray-based and rock-chested sea:
Over the past table I repeat this present grace.
5. Our Friendship (January 14)
by David Lehman
We have a name for it
in the South:
It means we’ve known
each other so long
it doesn’t matter
that he’s an asshole
in my opinion
or I’m an asshole
in his opinion
And I want you to know
I’m not from the South
and you’re not my buddy
and it doesn’t matter
January Poems for Birthday
Celebrate a January birthday with a special poem that captures the essence of this unique month.
Acrostic January Poems
Acrostic poems spell out a word using the first letter of each line. These January acrostic poems are creative and clever, and perfect for those who enjoy word play.
by Carolby Grace
Just a new beginning,
Another year that’s come.
New year for
Another start, another try
Racing along. . .
Joyous middle winter
As snow flies
New and white.
Unyielding to the sunshine,
Air sparkles, cold delight.
Ready for the spring to come,
Yet, holding winter tight.
by Andrea Richards
Warm hot chocolate, as good as sweet honey
In this season, there is nothing but whiteness and cold
Nevertheless, children’s laughs fill the lonely air
The cold winter weather roars with its mighty wind
Every day comes by too quick, shorter than an hour
Reindeer are flying high in the dark night sky, along Santa
3. January Acrostic Poem
by Emily Krauss
J is for the Joy of January. What Joy can you find this month?
A is for Amazing. How can you make January an Amazing month?
N is for Neat
U is for Unique
A is for Awesome. How can you make January an Awesome month?
R is for Radiance. Shine your Radiance all throughout the month of January
You will rock the month of January
4. Daily Challenge
by St Ernans
White fluffy snow all around
Ice skating is fun to do
Need to wear a hat and gloves
Trees have lost their leaves
Enjoying hot chocolate
Really cold outside
5. Simple Acrostic
by Mrs. Simpson
Winter is coming
I like Winter
Now winter is here
Time to play outside
Elves come to town
6. January Acrostic
J ust a little snow with a few angels to portray
A little hot chocolate is on its merry way
N ever before have I seen such an icy mount
U nderneath the valley and over the fount
A re you filled with warmth or are you chilled?
R ainy days have turned to icy roads instilled
Y ou and me are one true soul ready to be fulfilled
In conclusion, January poems are a beautiful way to celebrate the first month of the year and embrace the chilly, wintry season.
From humorous to inspiring, short to long, and for all age groups, there is a poem for everyone.
Whether you want to reminisce about past Januaries or create new memories, poetry can capture the essence of this month’s unique atmosphere.
Famous poets have written about January and its significance, showcasing how poetry can be a powerful tool to express emotions and thoughts.
January poems can provide comfort, joy, and inspiration during this time of transition and renewal, making them a wonderful addition to any poetry collection or winter-themed event.
Did you enjoy these poems about January?