“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.”— Albert Camus
“When autumn darkness falls, what we will remember are the small acts of kindness: a cake, a hug, an invitation to talk, and every single rose. These are all expressions of a nation coming together and caring about its people.”— Jens Stoltenberg
Midweek Motif ~ Autumn
In West Bengal, India, where I live Autumn has two entities; Early, (we call it Sharat) and Late (known as Hemanta). As the Monsoon peters out, Sharat, slightly warm, sets in with a richness of fulfillment and festivity all around. While Hemanta has a distinct nip in the air; it is a pre-winter season. Our poets eulogize both.
In the US Autumn is Fall, full of vibrant colors. Foliage lights up with brilliant, yellow, red, orange. Very much scenic and beautiful. A time for lighting a fire in the fireplace. Robert Frost sings, “O hushed October morning mild, / Begin the hours of this day slow.” It’s a preparation season for the approaching
John Keats says, “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness….thou hast thy music too, —”
And we are all ears, poets, for your autumnal music:
On A Withered Branch
by Matsuo Basho
On a withered branch
A crow has alighted
Nightfall in autumn
by Thomas Ernest Hulme
A touch of cold in the Autumn night
I walked abroad,
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded;
And round about were the wistful stars
With white faces like town children.
by Adelaide Crapsey
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The Leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
by Rainer Maria Rilke
The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no”.
And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.
We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.
And yet there is Someone, whose hands
Infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.
by Dorothy Parker
In May my heart was breaking-
Oh, wide the wound, and deep!
And bitter it beat at waking,
And sore it split in sleep.
And when it came November,
I sought my heart, and sighed,
“Poor thing, do you remember?”
“What heart was that?” it cried.
Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—
(Next week Susan’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Dark Moon, New Moon.)