Poetry Page

[mrssherlock]

Welcome to our Autumn Poetry Page.
A haven for those who listen to the words
that open hearts, imagination, and our feelings
that we share about the poems we post - Please Join Us.

Poetry can be part of life       rather than a thing apart. Share with us       Poems about the end          of the natural year.            Tell us       How you celebrate          a poet's life and poems. Autumn holidays -       Tell us about Poetry in          Fall parties and gift giving.

A few Poetry Links:

• Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn
• Fall Poetry
• Poems for Autumn

Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey & Fairanna

My memories of Walter Huston do not support an image of him singing this song on Broadway but he did indeed introduce it.  

September Song

(K. Weill, M. Anderson)

When I was a young man courting the girls
I played me a waiting game
If a maid refused me with tossing curls
I'd let the old Earth make a couple of whirls
While I plied her with tears in lieu of pearls
And as time came around she came my way
As time came around, she came

When you meet with the young girls early in the Spring
You court them in song and rhyme
They answer with words and a clover ring
But if you could examine the goods they bring
They have little to offer but the songs they sing
And the plentiful waste of time of day
A plentiful waste of time


Oh, it's a long, long while from May to December
But the days grow short when you reach September
When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
One hasn't got time for the waiting game

Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few
September, November
And these few precious days I'll spend with you
These precious days I'll spend with you

[Babi]

Ah, JACKIE, I agree with you on "The Green Green Grass of Home.  I hadn't thought of that song in a long while.  And "September Song" is one of my all-time favorites.  I'm glad I have those songs that is can still 'hear' in my mind.
Some wonderful new singers have been emerging from shows like "America
Has Talent" and I've been been sad that I'll never hear them. But the old-timers
are still there, in my head. 

[BarbStAubrey]

here we go...like y'all Walter Huston just does not come to mind singing and known for the September Song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkWn4--RmEk&feature=fvw

[BarbStAubrey]

Autumn
by Grace Paley

1

What is sometimes called a
   tongue of flame
or an arm extended burning
   is only the long
red and orange branch of
   a green maple
in early September reaching
   into the greenest field
out of the green woods at the
   edge of which the birch trees
appear a little tattered tired
   of sustaining delicacy
all through the hot summer re-
   minding everyone (in
our family) of a Russian
   song a story
by Chekhov or my father

2

What is sometimes called a
   tongue of flame
or an arm extended burning
   is only the long
red and orange branch of
   a green maple
in early September reaching
   into the greenest field
out of the green woods at the
   edge of which the birch trees
appear a little tattered tired
   of sustaining delicacy
all through the hot summer re-
   minding everyone (in
our family) of a Russian
   song   a story by
Chekhov or my father on
   his own lawn standing
beside his own wood in
   the United States of
America   saying (in Russian)
   this birch is a lovely
tree but among the others
   somehow superficial

[mrssherlock]

Barb:  birch trees
appear a little tattered tired of sustaining delicacy
all through the hot summer

How apt!  So nice. what a contrast between "sustaining" and "delicacy".

[JoanK]

If we're sharing memories of "Septenber Song", how about "Autumn Leaves" with Nat King Cole.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9IDUxk9sSXI&feature=related

(my cd of it has a better accompaniment.

Here's the jazz version with Stan Getz.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pnxeKl-Kbqw&feature=related

[Babi]

  Last night a cool, damp wind swept in, and for the first time we felt the summer heat was truly over.  It inspired me to go find a wind poem. Here's
one by our old favorite, Emily Dickinson.

  XXIV.

THE WIND.

Of all the sounds despatched abroad,
There's not a charge to me
Like that old measure in the boughs,
That phraseless melody

The wind does, working like a hand
Whose fingers brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.

When winds go round and round in bands,
And thrum upon the door,
And birds take places overhead,
To bear them orchestra,

I crave him grace, of summer boughs,
If such an outcast be,
He never heard that fleshless chant
Rise solemn in the tree,

As if some caravan of sound
On deserts, in the sky,
Had broken rank,
Then knit, and passed
In seamless company.

[ALF43]

Personally, I love fall.  It brings back such wonderful memories; the smells of the bonfires, the rustle of the dying leaves underfoot, the brilliant colors and the laughter of children in the evening.  I hate halloween but love the fall.  My daughter hates fall because it reminds her of death . So for her  (and us) I offer this poem by Susan Coolridge.

by Susan Coolidge

"I'll tell you how the leaves came down,"
The great tree to his children said,
"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,
Yes, very sleepy, little Red.
It is quite time to go to bed."

"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,
"Let us a little longer stay;
Dear Father Tree, behold our grief;
Tis such a very pleasant day
We do not want to go away."

So, for just one more merry day
To the great tree the leaflets clung,
Frolicked and danced, and had their way,
Upon the autumn breezes swung,
Whispering all their sports among,--

"Perhaps the great tree will forget,
And let us stay until the spring,
If we all beg, and coax, and fret."
But the great tree did no such thing;
He smiled to hear their whispering.

"Come, children, all to bed," he cried;
And ere the leaves could urge their prayer,
He shook his head, and far and wide,
Fluttering and rustling everywhere,
Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay,
Golden and red, a huddled swarm,
Waiting till one from far away,
White bedclothes heaped upon her arm,
Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare tree looked down and smiled,
"Good-night, dear little leaves," he said.
And from below each sleepy child
Replied, "Good-night," and murmured,
"It is so nice to go to bed!"
 

Don't you love it?  It is only good night not good-bye.

[BarbStAubrey]

Two wonderful poems - Yes, Alf the concept of goodnight and going to bed is  cozy and makes me think of the first night that the quilts have to be piled on - even though we had a cold front that Babi talks about it is still not cold enough for more than the one quilt or comforter that was folded all summer on the foot of the bed.

No orange, yellow or red leaves here but thank goodness rain - lots of rain - the lakes are still at their historic lows and are still falling in spite of all the rain. Our draught was so severe that the ground is still soaking up every drop that falls from the sky.

I talked last evening to my daughter who lives in the mountains of western North Carolina and there was a nip in the air along with leaves just tinging with the colors that will be in another week or two. I bet those who live further north are each day are seeing a change in the trees.

Babi I love the lines from the Dickinson poem -
Like that old measure in the boughs,
That phraseless melody

Her phrase tufts of tune caight my attention - I noticed the turn of phrase it allows us to slow down the poem since many of us expected to read tufts of time

[BarbStAubrey]

Since this is the season for us to plant bulbs I was prompted to find this poem...

THE COUNTRY INCIDENT
By May Sarton

Absorbed in planting bulbs, that work of hope,
I was startled by a loud human voice,
“Do go on working while I talk. Don’t stop!”
And I was caught upon the difficult choice—
To yield the last half hour of precious light,
Or to stay on my knees, absurd and rude;
I willed her to be gone with all my might,
This kindly neighbor who destroyed a mood;
I could not think of next spring any more,
I had to re-assess the way I live.
Long after I went in and closed the door,
I pondered on the crude imperative.

What it is to be caught up in each day
Like a child fighting imaginary wars,
Converting work into this passionate play,
A rounded whole made up of different chores
Which one might name haphazard meditation.
And yet an unexpected call destroys
Or puts to rout my primitive elation:
Why be so serious about mere joys?
Is this where some outmoded madness lies,
Poet as recluse? No, what comes to me
Is how my father looked out of his eyes,
And how he fought for his own passionate play.

He could tear up unread and throw away
Communications from officialdom,
And, courteous in every other way,
Would not brook anything that kept him from
Those lively dialogues with man’s whole past
That were his intimate and fruitful pleasure.
Impetuous, impatient to the last,
“Be adamant, keep clear, strike for your treasure!”
I hear the youthful ardor in his voice
(And so I must forgive a self in labor).
I feel his unrepentant smiling choice,
(And so I ask forgiveness of my neighbor).

May Sarton (1912-1995) was born in Belgium, and immigrated to the US during World War I. She attended one of the country’s first progressive grade schools, and received a scholarship to Vassar, which she declined to pursue acting. After failing as an actress, Sarton dedicated her energy to writing.

I thought this was a nice web site about bulbs bringing to our attention that Wordsworth's Daffodil poem is as a result of hundreds of bulbs that probably spread year after year but the start had to be planted by someone. Makes me wonder who that someone was.

http://www.piurl.com/1u2d

[BarbStAubrey]

Couldn't resist including this on our poetry page when I read it this morning - in a few short lines he says nearly everything every poet said that we shared in the last two days. His skill is amazing...

Nothing Gold Can Stay
Robert Frost (1923)

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

[mrssherlock]

One of my most favorites!

[Babi]

 I think it is the unexpected that makes Dickinson's poems such a joy,
BARB. She always has her own whimsical take on things.

  I love the Sarton poem. "Converting work into this passionate play,
A rounded whole made up of different chores."    What a lovely way to
look at the day's work.
  I recognize that Frost poem; I have it in his book  "Seasons". It's a
lovely book, with lovely photographs of the various seasons.
 

[mrssherlock]

The Harvest Moon

The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks upward
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon.
The harvest moon has come,
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon.
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum.

So people can't sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keep
A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!

And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep
Stare up at her petrified, while she swells
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing
Closer and closer like the end of the world.

Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry `We are ripe, reap us!' and the rivers
Sweat from the melting hills.

Ted Hughes

[BarbStAubrey]

I knew as I was reading the poem sounded familiar and sure enough our old friend Ted Hughes - thanks Jackie - we spent a month focused on his work back a couple of years ago.

Here is another poet from our past - Joy Harjo

Postcolonial Tale
by Joy Harjo

Every day is a reenactment of the creation story. We emerge from dense unspeakable material, through the shimmering power of
dreaming stuff.
This is the first world, and the last.

Once we abandoned ourselves for television, the box that separates the dreamer from the dreaming. It was as if we were stolen, put into a bag carried on the back of a whiteman who pretends to own the earth and the sky. In the sack were all the people of the world. We fought until there was a hole in the bag.

When we fell we were not aware of falling. We were driving to work, or to the mall. The children were in school learning subtraction with guns, although they appeared to be in classes.

We found ourselves somewhere near the diminishing point of civilization, not far from the trickster's bag of tricks.

Everything was as we imagined it. The earth and stars, every creature and leaf imagined with us.

The imagining needs praise as does any living thing. Stories and songs are evidence of this praise.
The imagination conversely illumines us, speaks with us, sings with us.

Stories and songs are like humans who when they laugh are indestructible.

No story or song will translate the full impact of falling, or the inverse power of rising up.

Of rising up.
 

[Babi]

 I find my mind resisting the idea of the 'bottom of the sky'. It 'does
not compute'! Do cows and sheep stare at a full moon, I wonder?  My, this
poem does have me mentally blinking my eyes, JACKIE. 

  Joy Harjo, now... I stopped a while there and just considered what she
was saying, esp. in light of the title, "Postcolonial Tale". " It was as if we were stolen, put into a bag carried on the back of a whiteman who pretends to own the earth and the sky."

 Wonderful how a poem can cut right to the heart of a matter.

[mrssherlock]

Hughes images are not easy, are they?  But the idea of

The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks upward
To lie on the bottom of the sky,

caught me and wouldn't let me go.  When we read Hughes did we talk about this one?  I can't remember if I was there for the discussion.

[BarbStAubrey]

Seems to me Jackie back then we did a lot of sharing without much commenting - but it was those phrases that I remembered from the poem - I loved the concept then and still do because the Harvest moon is low in the sky and where I am high on the edge of a mesa that is Northwest Hills in Austin therefore I do not see the  moon against a higher hill but rather over a low cityscape the harvest moon hovers low and comes up higher, larger and closer and then back down where as, sometimes the moon makes a huge arch high in the sky and sets in the west but in Autumn there is no traveled high arch from east to west.

And Yes, Joy Harjo can bring it to  us with impact because of her words - here is another of her poems.

EQUINOX

I must keep from breaking into the story by force
for if I do I will find myself with a war club in my hand
and the smoke of grief staggering toward the sun,
you nation dead beside you.

I keep walking away though it has been an eternity
and from each drop of blood
springs up sons and daughters, trees,
a mountain of sorrows, of songs.

I tell you this from the dusk of a small city in the north
not far from the birthplace of cars and industry.
Geese are returning to mate and crocuses have
broken through the frozen earth.

Soon they will come for me and I will make my stand
before the jury of destiny. Yes, I will answer in the clatter
of the new world, I have broken my addiction to war
and desire. Yes, I will reply, I have buried the dead

and made songs of the blood, the marrow

[Babi]

Powerful, BARB.  Joy Harjo does not write poems to be taken lightly. I'd be
interested to know something of her background. I'm going to look her up.

[Babi]

 I see that Miss Harjo also writes songs.  And we have something in common,
a Cherokee ancestry, tho' my portion is only about an eighth.

Joy Harjo (born Tulsa, Oklahoma, May 9, 1951) is an American poet, musician, and author of Native American Canadian ancestry. Known primarily as a poet, Harjo has also taught at the college level, played tenor saxophone with a band called Poetic Justice, edited literary journals, and written screenplays. She is a member of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation of Oklahoma and is of Cherokee descent. She is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop at the University of Iowa.

[BarbStAubrey]

Yes, we did a month of her poetry I guess two years ago now, it was in the early fall of the year and as a result I read several books about the Muscogee (Creek) Nation and the difference between a red stick town and a white stick town.

All her poetry is powerful stuff - I bet you could find a used edition of one of her books on Amazon for a low price - that is how I buy most of my books - I add the $4.  shipping in my head and if the total is less then the new book and it is a good used copy I go for it. In all these years I was only taken twice and each time when I notified Amazon they refunded my money even though that is a loss to them since the money went to the book seller.

[BarbStAubrey]

Here is another of her poems.

IT'S RAINING IN HONOLULU

There is a small mist at the brow of the mountain,

each leaf of flower, of taro, tree and bush shivers with ecstasy.

And the rain songs of all the flowering ones who have called for the rain

can be found there, flourishing beneath the currents of singing.

Rain opens us, like flowers, or earth that has been thirsty for more than a season.

We stop all of our talking, quit thinking, or blowing sax to drink the mystery.

We listen to the breathing beneath our breathing.

This is how the rain became rain, how we became human.

The wetness saturates everything, including the perpetrators of the second overthrow.

We will plant songs where there were curses

[mrssherlock]

Interesting to learn that she and I are distant cousins, of a sort. My GGM was an Alabama Creek, from that stubborn band who resisted the move to Oklahoma.  For many years they lived in dire poverty but presently fare better due to the casino they built in Atmore, the home of my father's family.  At some point after his birth the framily moved to Mobile where I was born and lived until my eighth year when we came to California, San Jose to be exact.  Now I live in Oregon where my MILs family established themselves; I followed my sister whose son successfully established himself in business.

[mrssherlock]

Barb:  There are no Joy Harjo poetry books in my library but I would like to read more of her work.  Have you any recommendations where I should start? 

[BarbStAubrey]

Jackie the books of Joy Harjo's poetry that I have and Amazon sells used for less than half the price are: [remember when calculating the cost to add the shipping]

http://www.amazon.com/Mad-Love-War-Wesleyan-Poetry/dp/081951182X/ref=sr_1_9?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1254096062&sr=8-9

http://www.amazon.com/Woman-Who-Fell-Sky-Poems/dp/039331362X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1254096062&sr=8-3

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0816511136/ref=ox_ya_oh_product

I also purchased and read:

"Deerskins and Duffels: Creek Indian Trade with Anglo-America, 1685-1815 (Indians of the Southeast) "

"A Sacred Path : The Way of the Muscogee Creeks"

"Road to Disappearance: A History of the Creek Indians (Civilization of the American Indian)"

"The Earth Shall Weep: A History of Native America by James Wilson"

"The Nature of Native American Poetry"

"American Indian Trickster Tales"

"Rabbit's Wish for Snow: A Native American Legend"

And the fabulous read that pulled everything together for me -  

"Reimagining Indians: Native Americans through Anglo Eyes, 1880-1940"

A few years ago I read most every thing  Scott Momaday wrote and also read Leslie Marmon Silko - I was communcating with someone from New Mexico who knew how Native American literature is constructed - she explained how the concept of time is different than our western way of describing time - that the past and future is alongside the present so as you are reading they are all the same circling back on each other - native American literature timeline includes the past and future seemlessly as if part of the present in the story.

I pick up bits of that in Joy Harjo's poetry - I also learned from one of the books I read in the list above that Harjo is a common name among the Muscogee, like Smith is a common anglo name.

There is a well known Muscogee Creek poet whose work I found on the Internet - Alex Posey - he lived before the tribes was forced out of the eastern states after the treaty of Fort Jackson after the Red Sticks war.

I thought the history of the Red Sticks villiages and the White Sticks villiages to be facinating.

[JoanK]

BARB: are you also into Native American music? I was in a store that sells goods made by Native Americans and bought a CD of what I thought was NA music -- turns out to be new age. Although I like it, I would like to try something more authentic.

[BarbStAubrey]

Joan I do not know much about Native American music - most of what I see available at the Pow Wows is Flutes and Cd's with Flute music that does sound new age. Traditional music the only thing I know about is the community drum and the various rattles that are tied to the angles and legs of the dancers - many of the original rattles I understand were made from Turtle Shells - when the Flute was played - what ceremony or dance or maybe for just the sound of it - I do not know but it would be fun to research and explore wouldn't it.

This Cd with flutes sounds interesting from the sample
http://www.amazon.com/Tribal-Winds-Native-American-Flutes/dp/B000002M7V/ref=pd_krex_fa_t_dp_img

Wikipedia has some information about the Native American Flute http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Native_American_flute

And here are other sites with information on the history of the Native American flute

http://cedarmesa.com/flutehistory.html#History

http://www.native-american-flutes.com/

http://www.native-languages.org/flutes.htm

I could be dead wrong but I wouldn't be a bit surprised to learn that the playing of the flute has something to do with sending the breath of life into being and the drum is expressing the heart beat of the earth.  If I am wrong it was a nice thought...  

[Babi]

  Thanks for that clue about 'seamless' time in Native American poetry, BARB.  It explains the shifts I was seeing in her poems.  It seems to me that this line
expresses so much of their spirituality..
  We listen to the breathing beneath our breathing.

[mrssherlock]

Barb:  That is an impressive list of references.  My library has a book which she edited: Reinventing the enemy's language : contemporary native women's writing of North America   Sounds like a good read to me.

[BarbStAubrey]

owww Jackie what a great book you have available - I looked it up on Amazon and couldn't stop reading the excerpts - found a copy for 1.35 plus shipping and so please let us hear from you the bits from the book that catch  your attention - when my copy arrives I will let you know - from an outside source the arrival date is often 2 or more weeks later.

Babi on days like this and in fact during any of the days in Fall it often feels as if we can hear the earth breathing doesn't it - but to be conscious of the breathing below the breathing - wow - Living in the city even though the sound of the highway traffic does not reach us I realize there is a low almost inaudible sound as if the earth were vibrating and I know that it is the traffic on the roads moving through and around town. I think we  have to get out of town to really be in touch again with who we are.

Have  y'all been watching the PBS special on the National Parks - I never read any of the books written by Muir but his quotes sound like the thoughts in the Native American poetry we read.

I know very little about Shintoism - I do not know how much is translated into English - However, I would love to compare the Japanese holiness with nature to the Native American's view.

The English Romantic Poets do not sound as if they are at one with nature but rather observers of Nature and use what they observe to further a philosophical concept - even Dickinson writes about nature as an Allegory.

Ownership is a funny concept - if  you own most believe they have the right to do what they want with what they own - and if they rent they still feel they have the right to do what they want only someone else picks up the tab - I guess  it is only when we see ourselves as a seemless part of nature that we get close to respecting nature but even then there are so many of  us who do not respect our bodies much less love ourselves - a conundrum.

Here is the wonderful web site by Joy Harjo http://www.joyharjo.com/Home.html

[Babi]

Well, noise is no longer a problem for me, but I do miss the stars.  All I can see
is two or three of the brightest ones, and I know that past all the city/industry
lights there are millions of them up there.

  Isn't Shinto an ancestor worship?  I know the Japanese paint wonderful
landscapes, but I was unaware of any 'holiness with nature' aspect. Incredible, isn't it, with all we have learned over the years, how very little we know.

[BarbStAubrey]

Babi here is a web site with a brief composit of Shintoism - http://www.religioustolerance.org/shinto.htm
Yes, you are right on, ancestor worship is part of Shinto practices.

I remember seeing several TV specials of Shinto Shrines located in mountains - I am not sure if their priests are called monks or what but I remember there was all this with wrapping and tying long pieces of cloth in certain configurations including how for some holy days the cloth was wrapped to hold on some sort of black hat - but most of all I remember a God status is given to certain trees, rocks, even a stream bed - not the same as the Native American view of nature but still a greater connection than most religions that stem from Abraham which seems to be all about the word and making the case for a single God head.

Here is a  nice site that explains a bit about Shinto and nature http://godquest.org/shintoism.htm

[BarbStAubrey]

Now I remember here is some brief information and then the photo of the two rocks that were married -

Shinto gods are called kami.
The Sun Goddess Amaterasu
is considered Shinto's most important kami.

Sacred places:
waterfalls,
streams,
mountains,
sacred straw rope,
stretched between the gateway, torii.

http://www.japan-guide.com/g4/4303_01.jpg

[BarbStAubrey]

Ah back to our theme of Autumn with a few Japanese poems centered in nature.

In the autumn fields
mingled with the pampas grass
flowers are blooming
should my love too, spring forth
or shall we never meet?


On Kasuga plain
between those patches of snow
just beginning to sprout,
glimpsed, the blades of grass,
like those glimpses of you.

The autumn breeze rises
on the shore at Fukiage--
and those white chrysanthemums
are they flowers? or not?
or only breakers on the beach?

[mrssherlock]

A book i read and reread many years ago has left me with two powerful images of Japan and its ties to Nature.  Shogun tells how a British sea captain and his crew are swept onshore in Japan when their ship is destroyed in a storm,  Japan at that time had had no contact with Westerners.  There were many areas of social conflict, chief being that Brits never bathed and Japanese bathed at least once daily.  As the captain assimilates he learns to seek repose by observing the rocks in a rock garden and waiting for them to grow.  http://www.piurl.com/1uJK
The second example:  the entire village assembled every evening to watch the sunset together. 
http://www.piurl.com/1uJM

[Babi]

Thanks for the links, BARB. I see the love of nature is considered
a 'noble virtue'. I can buy that.
  The Japanese poem on Autumn seems to reflect more Western themes and
style than most I have read. Not that I've read very much Japanese poetry.
I think I had begun to believe all their poems were five lines. 

  "Shogun" was a great book. It's been so long since I read it, I could
probably read it again with equal enjoyment.

[BarbStAubrey]

English Poet, 1793-1864

Autumn by John Clare

 The thistle-down's flying, though the winds are all still,
 On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
 The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
 Through stones past the counting it bubbles red hot.

 The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
 The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
 The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
 And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

 Hill tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
 And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
 Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
 Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

[BarbStAubrey]

Chinese Poet (Southern Dynasties 386-589)

Midnight Song of the Seasons: Autumn Song
                 Collection, Yuefu

The autumn wind enters through the window,
The gauze curtain starts to flutter and fly.
I raise my head and look at the bright moon,
And send my feelings a thousand miles in its light.

[BarbStAubrey]

Japanese Poet (Early Tenth Century)

When autumn came
My eyes clearly
Could not see it, yet
In the sound of the wind
I felt it.                    
                  By Fujiwara no Toshiyuki

[BarbStAubrey]

Muscogee Creek Poet, 1873-1908

Autumn

IN the dreamy silence
Of the afternoon, a
Cloth of gold is woven
Over wood and prairie;
And the jaybird, newly
Fallen from the heaven,
Scatters cordial greeting,
And the air is filled with
Scarlet leaves, that, dropping
Rise again, as ever,
With a useless sigh for
Rest--and it is Autumn.

                By Alexander Lawrence Posey