November Night

(Mirror Lake by Franklin Carmichael, 1890-1945,
Canadian artist)

We’ve now come to the last of the autumnal poems, but there are still weeks of Autumn left to enjoy.

NOVEMBER NIGHT

Listen.
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
And fall.

~ Adele Crapsey (1878-1914), American poet

Song for Autumn

(Little Island by A. J. Casson, 1898-1992,
Canadian artist)

The music continues.

SONG FOR AUTUMN

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think

of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

~ Mary Oliver, born 1935, American poet

Library

(Flyer by Desirée Brunton)

Join us tomorrow as we officially open the new children’s room at the George Hail Library. The festivities begin with an open house at 6 p.m.

LIBRARY

No need even
To take out
A book: only
Go inside
And savor
The heady
Dry breath of
Ink and paper,
Or stand and
Listen to the
Silent twitter
Of a billion
Tiny busy
Black words.

~ Valerie Worth (1933-1994), American poet

Birds’ Nests

(Tree by Piet Mondrian, 1872-1944, Dutch painter)

All is revealed.

BIRDS’ NESTS

The summer nests uncovered by autumn wind,
Some torn, others dislodged, all dark,
Everyone sees them: low or high in tree,
Or hedge, or single bush, they hang like a mark.

Since there’s no need of eyes to see them with
I cannot help a little shame
That I missed most, even at eye’s level, till
The leaves blew off and made the seeing no game.

’Tis a light pang. I like to see the nests
Still in their places, now first known,
At home and by far roads. Boys knew them not,
Whatever jays and squirrels may have done.

And most I like the winter nests deep-hid
That leaves and berries fell into:
Once a dormouse dined there on hazel-nuts,
And grass and goose-grass seeds found soil and grew.

~ Edward Thomas (1878-1917), British poet

Morning

(No.2 by Mark Rothko, 1903-1970, American painter)

The day breaks quietly.

Morning — cutting firewood, filling my jug
with pure water, gathering wild grasses,
while a cool Autumn rain gently falls.

~ Ryokan (1758-1831), Japanese poet, hermit, and Buddhist monk

Seeing the Moonlight

(A Cornfield by Moonlight with the Evening Star by
Samuel Palmer, 1805-1881, English painter and printmaker)

Among poets, the moon is a topic almost as popular as love.

SEEING THE MOONLIGHT

Seeing the moonlight
spilling down
through these trees,
my heart fills to the brim
with autumn.

~ Ono No Komachi (825?-890?), Japanese poet

This Only

(Migration – The Great Flood by Norval Morrisseau,
1931?-2007, Canadian Ojibwa artist)

The past is a different country. Travel light.

THIS ONLY

A valley and above it forests in autumn colors.
A voyager arrives, a map led him here.
Or perhaps memory. Once, long ago, in the sun,
When the first snow fell, riding this way
He felt joy, strong, without reason,
Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm
Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight,
Of a train on the viaduct, a feast of motion.
He returns years later, has no demands.
He wants only one, most precious thing:
To see, purely and simply, without name,
Without expectations, fears, or hopes,
At the edge where there is no I or not-I.

~ Czeslaw Milosz (1911-2004), Polish poet, essayist, and translator, and winner of the 1980 Nobel Prize in Literature

First Night of Fall, Grosvenor Ave.

(Homage to the Square: Soft Spoken by Josef Albers,
1888-1976, German-born American painter, writer,
and theorist of color

This happened one evening on a street in Montreal.

FIRST NIGHT OF FALL, GROSVENOR AVE.

In the blue lamplight
the leaf falls

on its shadow.

~ George Bowering, born 1935, Canadian writer and poet

Now

(The Last Rose of Summer, cover of song sheet)

The passing of no other season evokes such melancholy.

NOW

The longed-for summer goes;
Dwindles away
To its last rose,
Its narrowest day.

No heaven-sweet air but must die;
Softlier float
Breathe lingeringly
Its final note.

Oh, what dull truths to tell!
Now is the all-sufficing all
Wherein to love the lovely well,
Whate’er befall.

~ Walter de la Mare (1873-1956), English writer, most famous for his ghost stories and children’s poetry

Rapids

(Triptych by Mark Rothko, 1903-1970, American painter)

Through the leaves — a glimpse of eternity.

RAPIDS

Fall’s leaves are redder than
spring’s flowers, have no pollen,
and also sometimes fly, as the wind
schools them out or down in shoals
or droves: though I
have not been here long, I can
look up at the sky at night and tell
how things are likely to go for
the next hundred million years:
the universe will probably not find
a way to vanish nor I
in all that time reappear.

~ A. R. Ammons (1926-2001), American poet

The Morns Are Meeker

(The Ballerina by Joan Miró, 1893-1983,
Spanish painter, ceramist, and sculptor)

The Belle of Amherst is preparing for the gala that is Autumn.

The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.

~ Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), American poet

Fireflies

(Fireflies on the Water, installation with lights, mirrors,
and water at the Whitney Museum, 2002, by Yayoi Kusama,
born 1929, Japanese painter, performance artist, and creator
of installation art)

It’s my wedding anniversary today.

FIREFLIES

It was that evening with fireflies
while we were waiting for the bus to Velletri
that we saw two old people kissing
under the plane tree. It was then
you said, half to the air
half to me:
Whoever loves for years
hasn’t lived in vain.
And it was then I caught sight of the first
fireflies in the darkness, sparkling
with flashes of light around your head.
It was then.

~ Rolf Jacobsen (1907-1994), Norwegian poet

Who by Fire

(Still Life with Flowers by Marc Chagall,
1887-1985, Russian-French artist)

Today is Yom Kippur, or the Day of Atonement, the holiest day of the Jewish Year. It began last night at sundown. On this day, the faithful fast and ask for forgiveness for the sins they have committed in the past year.

Leonard Cohen is a Canadian poet from Montreal, the son of a rabbi, who put his poems to music and is now more well-known as a composer and singer of ballads. Many of his earlier poems were inspired by the Scriptures. Who by Fire is based on a prayer recited on Yom Kippur. In this song, Cohen identifies a list of supplicants who come calling on God. Each one is described by the way he or she died. How one dies often says a lot about how one has lived.

To listen to Leonard Cohen perform this song, click on this link (you may have to cut and paste):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_grEzJyGzn4&feature=fvsr

WHO BY FIRE

And who by fire, who by water,
Who in the sunshine, who in the night time,
Who by high ordeal, who by common trial,
Who in your merry, merry month of May,
Who by very slow decay,
And who shall I say is calling?

And who in her lonely slip, who by barbiturate,
Who in these realms of love, who by something blunt,
Who by avalanche, who by powder,
Who for his greed, who for his hunger,
And who shall I say is calling?

And who by brave assent, who by accident,
Who in solitude, who in this mirror,
Who by his lady's command, who by his own hand,
Who in mortal chains, who in power,
And who shall I say is calling?

~ Leonard Cohen, born 1934, Canadian poet, novelist, singer, and songwriter

Song for September

(Leaves by Séraphine Louis de Senlis,
1864-1942, French painter)

“For broken dreams,” wrote C. S. Lewis, “the cure is, dream again and deeper.”

SONG FOR SEPTEMBER

Respect the dreams of old men, said the cricket,
Summer behind the song, the streams falling
Ledge to ledge in the mountains where clouds come.
Attend the old men who wander
Daylight and evening in the air grown cold,
Time thins, leaving their will to wind and whispers;
The bells are swallowed gently under the ground.

Because in time the birds will leave this country,
Waning south, not to return again;
Because we walk in gardens among grasses,
Touching the garments of the wind that passes,
Dimming our eyes —

Give benches to the old men, said the cricket,
Listening by cool ways to the world that dies
Fainter than seas drawn off from mist and stone.
The rain that speaks at night is the prayer’s answer.
What are dry phantoms to the old men
Lying at night alone?

They are not here whose gestures we have known,
Their hands in the dusk, their frail hair in the sun.

~ Robert Fitzgerald (1910-1985), American poet

Hurrahing in Harvest

(The Scythers, 1908 by N. C. Wyeth,
1882-1945, American artist and illustrator)

The poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins are always best read out loud.

HURRAHING IN HARVEST

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks rise
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behavior
Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, willful-wavier
Meal-drift molded ever and melted across skies?

I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,
Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Savior;
And, eyes, heart, what looks, what lips yet gave you a
Rapturous love’s greeting of realer, of rounder replies?

And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder
Majestic — as a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet! —
These things, these things were here and but the beholder
Wanting; which two when they once meet,
The heart rears wings bold and bolder
And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet.

~ Gerard Manley Hopkins, S.J., 1844-1899, British poet whose work has had a profound influence on modern poetry

Answers

(Beehive, English woodcut, 1658)

The poet shows a keen appreciation of the need to keep things in perspective.

ANSWERS

I kept my answers small and kept them near;
Big questions bruised my mind but still I let
Small answers be a bulwark to my fear.

The huge abstractions I kept from the light;
Small things I handled and caressed and loved.
I let the stars assume the whole of night.

But the big answers clamored to be moved
Into my life. Their great audacity
Shouted to be acknowledged and believed.

Even when all small answers build up to
Protection of my spirit, still I hear
Big answers striving for their overthrow

And all the great conclusions coming near.

~ Elizabeth Jennings (1926-2001), English poet and librarian

A Haiku

(Black Leaf on Green Background
by Henri Matisse, 1869-1954, French
printmaker, painter, and sculptor)

As Autumn approaches, a haiku.

Swinging on delicate hinges
the Autumn Leaf
Almost off the stem

~ Jack Kerouac (1922-1969), American of French-Canadian descent, a poet and novelist who wrote in both French and English and was one of the original members of the Beat Generation

Counting-Out Rhyme

(Blue Sky by Emily Carr, 1871-1945, Canadian
writer and painter whose work celebrated the
cultures of the Indians of the Pacific Northwest.)

We all notice the colors of the leaves on the trees in Autumn. It’s the poet who notes that the barks of those trees also have varied hues.

COUNTING-OUT RHYME

Silver bark of beech, and sallow
Bark of yellow birch and yellow
Twig of willow.

Stripe of green in moosewood maple,
Color seen in leaf of apple,
Bark of popple.*

Wood of popple pale as moonbeam,
Wood of oak for yoke and barn-beam,
Wood of hornbeam.

Silver bark of beech, and hollow
Stem of elder, tall and yellow
Twig of willow.

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950), American poet

* popple - poplar

Mary

(Seventh-century icon of Santa Maria Nova, Rome,
from Sister Wendy Beckett’s Encounters with God:
In Quest of the Ancient Icons of Mary)

I was named after both of my grandmothers, my maternal one from Germany, and my paternal one from Hungary.

In some European countries, like Hungary, Catholics celebrate “Patron Saint Days” or “Name Days,” the feast day in the liturgical calendar of the saint after whom one is named. September 12 is the Feast Day of the Name of Mary. Since my father is Hungarian, we commemorated this day, only five days after my birthday, and I had two celebrations in one week.

MARY

Miriam, Mary, Maria, Marie,
What voweled jewel might this be?

Is it a sapphire love,
Of purest water true?
Or is it water of
A sapphire hue?

Miriam, Marie, Maria, Mary,
So crystal-cut, yet limpid, airy!

It flows in regal tones,
Glitters like both of these:
The sea-reflecting stones,
The jeweled seas.

Mary, Marie, Maria, Miriam,
Ocean of beryl,* sea-lit beryllium!

Gem for the Father’s Ring,
Stone of the Son’s great crown,
Glint on the Spirit’s wing,
Light poring down.

Miriam, Mary, Marie, Maria,
Pendant for my lips, Maria!

~ Angélico Chávez (1910-1996), Franciscan priest, poet, writer, fresco painter, and historian of New Mexico

* beryl - emerald and aquamarine are two varieties of this mineral; beryllium - rare metallic chemical element highly resistant to corrosion

Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth

(Bust with Twin Towers by André Kertész, 1894-1985,
Hungarian-born photographer)

Today we remember one of the saddest days in America’s history.

On April 27, 1941, after a period of heavy Nazi bombardment of England, Prime Minister Winston Churchill went on the radio and spoke to the world. In his speech, he quoted the last verse of this poem.

SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NAUGHT AVAILETH

Say not the struggle naught availeth,
The labor and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here, no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright!

~ Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861), English poet