Like last year, the first day of autumn, or the Fall Equinox, doesn't seem much like fall here in Tucson, where the temperature is expected to hit 100. But, the Sun and the Stars have decreed that today is the day, so here's a few poems that may be closer to reality in a month or so.
For you in northern climes, therefore:
Under the Harvest Moon
Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
Under the summer roses
When the fragrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
with a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
-- Carl Sandburg --
(Autumn--the season of memories . . .)
Yellow autumn moon . . .
Unimpressed the scarecrow stands
Simply looking bored
-- Issa --
from A Little Treasury of Haiku
Autumn Refrain
The skreak and skritter of evening gone
And grackles gone and sorrows of the sun,
The sorrows of the sun, too, gone . . . the moon and moon,
The yellow moon of words about the nightingale
In measureless measures, not a bird for me
But the name of a bird and the name of a nameless air
I have never--shall never hear. And yet beneath
The stillness that comes to me out of this, beneath
The stillness of everything gone, and being still
Being and sitting still, something resides,
Some skreaking and skrittering residuum,
And grates these evasions of the nightingale
Though I have never--shall never hear that bird.
And the stillness is in the key, all of it is,
The stillness is all in the key of that desolate sound.
--Wallace Stevens --
(I find this the most puzzling of the autumn poems.)
#656
The name - of it - is "Autumn" -
The hue - of it - is Blood -
An Artery - upon the Hill -
A Vein - along the Road -
Great Globules - in the Alleys -
And Oh, the Shower of Stain -
When winds - upset the Basin -
And spill the Scarlet Rain -
It sprinkles Bonnets - far slow -
It gathers ruddy Pools -
Then - eddies like a Rose - away -
Upon Vermilion Wheels -
-- Emily Dickinson --
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
ed. Thomas H. Johnson
Autumn Note
The little flowers of yesterday
Have all forgotten May.
The last gold leaf
Has turned to brown.
The last bright day is grey.
The cold of winter comes apace
And you have gone away.
-- Langston Hughes --
Gathering Leaves
Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?
-- Robert Frost --
(That last line raises some questions, doesn't it? Frost has a habit of doing that. Does the poem end on an ominous note?)
Dry cheerful cricket
Chirping, keeps the autumn gay . . .
Contemptuous of frost
-- Basho --
from A Little Treasury of Haiku
(This poem also seems to end on an ominous note.)
(Just noticed the double tie-ins with the previous poem.)
Showing posts with label ISSA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ISSA. Show all posts
Friday, September 23, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Three Poems
99
New feet within my garden go --
New fingers stir the sod --
A Troubadour upon the Elm
Betrays the solitude
New children play upon the green --
New Weary sleep below --
And still the pensive Spring returns --
And still the punctual Snow!
-- Emily Dickinson --
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
Dead my old fine hopes
And dry my dreaming but still . . .
Iris, blue each spring
-- Shushiki --
Angry I strode home . . .
But stooping in my garden
Calm old willow tree
-- Ryota --
I guess that, at times, we may not be as important as we think we are.
both haiku from A Little Treasury of Haiku
New feet within my garden go --
New fingers stir the sod --
A Troubadour upon the Elm
Betrays the solitude
New children play upon the green --
New Weary sleep below --
And still the pensive Spring returns --
And still the punctual Snow!
-- Emily Dickinson --
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
Dead my old fine hopes
And dry my dreaming but still . . .
Iris, blue each spring
-- Shushiki --
Angry I strode home . . .
But stooping in my garden
Calm old willow tree
-- Ryota --
I guess that, at times, we may not be as important as we think we are.
both haiku from A Little Treasury of Haiku
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Winter Solstice: 2010
Night People Rejoice: this is your time!
Day People Rejoice: your time is coming, beginning tomorrow!
This is the shortest day of the year, or from a different perspective, it will be tonight, the longest night of the year. It is also the first day of winter, or so say the powers-that-be, at least for this part of the planet. Other parts, other powers-that-be, other rulings.
Buddha on the hill . . .
From your holy nose indeed
Hangs an icicle
-- Issa --
From The Little Treasury of Haiku
Nobody has ever accused Issa of being overly reverent.
Going snow-viewing
One by one the walkers vanish . . .
Whitely falling veils
-- Katsuri --
From LTH
Snow in the Suburbs
Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute;
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward, when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again,
The palings are glued together like a wall,
And there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall.
A sparrow enters the tree,
Whereon immediately
A snow-lump thrice his own slight size
Descends on him and showers his head and eyes,
And overturns him,
And near inurns him,
And lights on a nether twig, when its brush
Starts off a volley of other lodging lumps with a rush.
The steps are a blanched slope,
Up which, with feeble hope,
A black cat comes, wide-eyed and thin;
And we take him in.
-- Thomas Hardy --
Wind and Window Flower
Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.
-- Robert Frost --
No. 1316
Winter is good -- his Hoar Delights
Italic flavor yield --
To Intellects inebriate
With Summer, or the World --
Generic as a Quarry
And hearty -- as a Rose --
Invited with Asperity
But welcome when he goes.
-- Emily Dickinson --
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
edited by Thomas H. Johnson
In the wintry moon
Gales raging down the river
Hone the rock-edges
-- Chora --
From LTH
My very bone-ends
Made contact with the icy quilts
Of deep December
-- Buson --
From LTH
Day People Rejoice: your time is coming, beginning tomorrow!
This is the shortest day of the year, or from a different perspective, it will be tonight, the longest night of the year. It is also the first day of winter, or so say the powers-that-be, at least for this part of the planet. Other parts, other powers-that-be, other rulings.
Buddha on the hill . . .
From your holy nose indeed
Hangs an icicle
-- Issa --
From The Little Treasury of Haiku
Nobody has ever accused Issa of being overly reverent.
Going snow-viewing
One by one the walkers vanish . . .
Whitely falling veils
-- Katsuri --
From LTH
Snow in the Suburbs
Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute;
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward, when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again,
The palings are glued together like a wall,
And there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall.
A sparrow enters the tree,
Whereon immediately
A snow-lump thrice his own slight size
Descends on him and showers his head and eyes,
And overturns him,
And near inurns him,
And lights on a nether twig, when its brush
Starts off a volley of other lodging lumps with a rush.
The steps are a blanched slope,
Up which, with feeble hope,
A black cat comes, wide-eyed and thin;
And we take him in.
-- Thomas Hardy --
Wind and Window Flower
Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.
-- Robert Frost --
No. 1316
Winter is good -- his Hoar Delights
Italic flavor yield --
To Intellects inebriate
With Summer, or the World --
Generic as a Quarry
And hearty -- as a Rose --
Invited with Asperity
But welcome when he goes.
-- Emily Dickinson --
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
edited by Thomas H. Johnson
In the wintry moon
Gales raging down the river
Hone the rock-edges
-- Chora --
From LTH
My very bone-ends
Made contact with the icy quilts
Of deep December
-- Buson --
From LTH
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Rubaiyat: Quatrain IV
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
This was the version as it appeared in the first edition, and FitzGerald kept it the same throughout the following four editions.
Quatrain IV appears to introduce a shift from the first three quatrains which occur at dawn to a season of the year. In Persia, the New Year begins with the vernal equinox, which we call the first day of spring. The "White Hand of Moses" and "Jesus from Ground" are spring flowers, according to what I've been able to find out. In Exodus iv, 6, Moses' hand is turned white as if leprous and then healed. This would suggest that Moses could perform miracles of healing. It was also believed that even Jesus' breath could cure the sick and ailing.
Spring is the season for rebirth, and those cured of illness or a disability could be said, in some sense, to be reborn. Spring, of course, is the season traditionally associated with renewal, with new beginnings, which could connect it to the previous quatrains which took place in the morning of a new day, which is also considered a time of beginnings. As the quatrain tells us, the New Year or Spring is the time for "reviving old desires." We have come full circle here, because it is "old desires" that are being revived and not the emergence of new ones.
The second line puzzles me though; it almost hints that this may not be an unqualified blessing--
"The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires".
Could this rebirth or renewal be something to flee? I am reminded of a haiku by Issa that also seems to suggest an idea that is contrary to the usual portrayal of spring, the time of new beginnings and hope:
Spring begins again;
Upon folly,
Folly returns.
- Issa -
On the other hand, it might also be telling us that the beginning of the New Year is the time for reflecting back upon the past year, upon our successes and failures: What went right--and why? What went wrong--and why? In this context, Issa seems to be rather pessimistic about the possibilities of improvement.
This quatrain suggests the cyclic nature of the world; the wheel has turned. It is time for rebirth and renewal, but some of those "old desires," as Issa tells us, may be folly; therefore, a thoughtful soul will draw back and consider past successes and follies, as a guide for the future.
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
This was the version as it appeared in the first edition, and FitzGerald kept it the same throughout the following four editions.
Quatrain IV appears to introduce a shift from the first three quatrains which occur at dawn to a season of the year. In Persia, the New Year begins with the vernal equinox, which we call the first day of spring. The "White Hand of Moses" and "Jesus from Ground" are spring flowers, according to what I've been able to find out. In Exodus iv, 6, Moses' hand is turned white as if leprous and then healed. This would suggest that Moses could perform miracles of healing. It was also believed that even Jesus' breath could cure the sick and ailing.
Spring is the season for rebirth, and those cured of illness or a disability could be said, in some sense, to be reborn. Spring, of course, is the season traditionally associated with renewal, with new beginnings, which could connect it to the previous quatrains which took place in the morning of a new day, which is also considered a time of beginnings. As the quatrain tells us, the New Year or Spring is the time for "reviving old desires." We have come full circle here, because it is "old desires" that are being revived and not the emergence of new ones.
The second line puzzles me though; it almost hints that this may not be an unqualified blessing--
"The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires".
Could this rebirth or renewal be something to flee? I am reminded of a haiku by Issa that also seems to suggest an idea that is contrary to the usual portrayal of spring, the time of new beginnings and hope:
Spring begins again;
Upon folly,
Folly returns.
- Issa -
On the other hand, it might also be telling us that the beginning of the New Year is the time for reflecting back upon the past year, upon our successes and failures: What went right--and why? What went wrong--and why? In this context, Issa seems to be rather pessimistic about the possibilities of improvement.
This quatrain suggests the cyclic nature of the world; the wheel has turned. It is time for rebirth and renewal, but some of those "old desires," as Issa tells us, may be folly; therefore, a thoughtful soul will draw back and consider past successes and follies, as a guide for the future.
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