75 Autumn poems

Air a-gittin' cool an' coolah, Frost a-comin' in de night, Hicka' nuts an' wa'nuts fallin', Possum keepin' out o' sight. Tu'key struttin' in de ba'nya'd, Nary step so proud ez his; Keep on struttin', Mistah Tu'key, Yo' do' know whut time it is. Cidah press commence a-squeakin' Eatin' apples sto'ed away, Chillun swa'min' 'roun' lak ho'nets, Huntin' aigs ermung de hay. Mistah Tu'key keep on gobblin' At de geese a-flyin' souf, Oomph! dat bird do' know whut's comin'; Ef he did he'd shet his mouf. Pumpkin gittin' good an' yallah Mek me open up my eyes; Seems lak it's a-lookin' at me Jes' a-la'in' dah sayin' "Pies." Tu'key gobbler gwine 'roun' blowin', Gwine 'roun' gibbin' sass an' slack; Keep on talkin', Mistah Tu'key, You ain't seed no almanac. Fa'mer walkin' th'oo de ba'nya'd Seein' how things is comin' on, Sees ef all de fowls is fatt'nin'— Good times comin' sho's you bo'n. Hyeahs dat tu'key gobbler braggin', Den his face break in a smile— Nebbah min', you sassy rascal, He's gwine nab you atter while. Choppin' suet in de kitchen, Stonin' raisins in de hall, Beef a-cookin' fu' de mince meat, Spices groun'—I smell 'em all. Look hyeah, Tu'key, stop dat gobblin', You ain' luned de sense ob feah, You ol' fool, yo' naik's in dangah, Do' you know Thanksgibbin's hyeah?

Three years ago, in the afternoons, I used to sit back here and try To answer the simple arithmetic of my life, But never could figure it— This object and that object Never contained the landscape nor all of its implications, This tree and that shrub Never completely satisfied the sum or quotient I took from or carried to, nor do they do so now, Though I'm back here again, looking to calculate, Looking to see what adds up. Everything comes from something, only something comes from nothing, Lao Tzu says, more or less. Eminently sensible, I say, Rubbing this tiny snail shell between my thumb and two fingers. Delicate as an earring, it carries its emptiness like a child It would be rid of. I rub it clockwise and counterclockwise, hoping for anything Resplendent in its vocabulary or disguise— But one and one make nothing, he adds, endless and everywhere, The shadow that everything casts.

AUTUMN gold of amber red of ember brown of umber all September MCCOY CREEK Over the bright shallows now no flights of swallows. Leaves of the sheltering willow dangle thin and yellow. OCTOBER At four in the morning the west wind moved in the leaves of the beech tree with a long rush and patter of water, first wave of the dark tide coming in. SOLSTICE On the longest night of all the year in the forests up the hill, the little owl spoke soft and clear to bid the night be longer still. THE WINDS OF MAY are soft and restless in their leafy garments that rustle and sway making every moment movement. HAIL The dogwood cowered under the thunder and the lilacs burned like light itself against the storm-black sky until the hail whitened the grass with petals.

Dazzling emptiness of the black green end of summer no one running in the yard pulse pulse the absence. Leave them not to the empty yards. They resembled a family. Long quiet hours. Sometimes one was angry sometimes someone called her "wife" someone's hair receding. An uptick in the hormone canopy embodied a restlessness and oh what to do with it. (How she arrived in a hush in a looking away and not looking.) It had been some time since richness intangible and then they made a whole coat of it. Meanwhile August moved toward its impervious finale. A mood by the river. Gone. One lucid rush carrying them along. Borderless and open the days go on—

Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring; That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling. No faint and hesitating trill, Such tribute as to winter chill The lonely redbreast pays! Clear, loud, and lively is the din, From social warblers gathering in Their harvest of sweet lays. Nor doth the example fail to cheer Me, conscious that my leaf is sere, And yellow on the bough:— Fall, rosy garlands, from my head! Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed Around a younger brow! Yet will I temperately rejoice; Wide is the range, and free the choice Of undiscordant themes; Which, haply, kindred souls may prize Not less than vernal ecstasies, And passion's feverish dreams. For deathless powers to verse belong, And they like Demi-gods are strong On whom the Muses smile; But some their function have disclaimed, Best pleased with what is aptliest framed To enervate and defile. Not such the initiatory strains Committed to the silent plains In Britain's earliest dawn: Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, While all-too-daringly the veil Of nature was withdrawn! Nor such the spirit-stirring note When the live chords Alcæus smote, Inflamed by sense of wrong; Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire Of fierce vindictive song. And not unhallowed was the page By wingèd Love inscribed, to assuage The pangs of vain pursuit; Love listening while the Lesbian Maid With finest touch of passion swayed Her own Æolian lute. O ye, who patiently explore The wreck of Herculanean lore, What rapture! could ye seize Some Theban fragment, or unroll One precious, tender-hearted scroll Of pure Simonides. That were, indeed, a genuine birth Of poesy; a bursting forth Of genius from the dust: What Horace gloried to behold, What Maro loved, shall we enfold? Can haughty Time be just!

It’s turneresque in twilight. The word comes at me with its headlights on, so it’s revelation and not death. I figure I’m halfway home though I’ve only started. Nothing is moving but me: I’m a blackbird. The neigh- bor’s in labor, but so am I, pushing against the road. Physics tells us nothing is lost, but I’ve been copping time from death and can’t relent for every job the stars drop on my back.

October, and the leaves turned late but strong. Rock maples and the reds, clear brazen, blaze long-burning feats of sugar through our ways. Their strident hold upon the back roads pulls our morning drive, out to where Oak Woods Road crosses the river that they call Great Works. The nearby fields so rich it’s hard to breathe— the hay treacly with auburn, grasses bronzed— we stop before a red farmhouse, just shy of where the river runs, where maple trees have laid the front lawns ravished with their loss. From Booker’s truck we pull out sacks and tools, proceed to gather up the autumn’s spoils. He holds each big bag open, and I rake the broad red leaves together and inside. The crop is so much greater than our work could ever capture, even as we press it in, right close, to fill October’s urge, but we have cleared a windfall just the same: A clarity, the season’s morning hues, and our sweet chore have worked an art of fall. As autumn and the Great Works trickle by, we skim as much brimmed crimson as these few stout bags will hold within, enough to lay four inches of the fall upon his fields. October's task has raked the colors high. To turn 'em in, the soil to bed with yield, is just as good as planting winter rye.

Fall a scrimage of yellow leaves today All over Lincoln Park Like the mask of the Yellow Mule who travels between the next world and Tibet inside its house of glass in the Field Museum by the lake. I am carrying the night. I am carrying it as if it were a dark blue dish with stars for the dinner of the Dalai Lama. It is the sky two nights ago; Its voluptuous rich blue looks almost black before the word for blue had been invented; The clouds like continents, like huge, majestic prehistoric creatures moving in a dance; The stars are brilliant ants.  They may have died a billion years ago. I feel so happy.   It is as if I'm with my wife who's making sculpture miles and miles away on Ada Street. I like everything about her. The way an angel, say, might look upon this early autumn scene and love everything about it for its reality— These trees flanking the lagoon at Fullerton are quiet as green fish, The pale khaki maple leaf lying on the ground, its veins intricate as the practice of a Tartar cavalry, Its delicacy like the penis of a cuttlefish, The grass pale lime and brown as dreams when they are turning brown Is almost ghostly, The way the family album on the table in the livingroom has a gallery of ghosts. There is only wonder. Like the wonder in the worn thighbone of the dinosaur We're allowed to touch As often as we want on the Main Floor of the Field Museum. I bike along the lake and watch The whiplash of the waves and think, I didn't have to be here in the first place: I could have been a star: Or cuttlefish. The shadow of that tree.  Or been one of the bees of oblivion In any ordinary orgasm. If there were no moon our hearts could take its place.

something there is that loves an arrow, or flattery like when the current or blaming mouths in mirrors to private discernment and alarms engorge every room's crease. you can't hear how you sound and the voice in your head plus the ones that surge. nothing can muffle it, but everything shows up instead. Notice first, groove in couch or tore up face. house no food and he show up on the third day, shut in and announcing. He shuffle some promise which is just enough to stave off an evening out taking cell pics of yourself and all those who meant so much, who you can no longer detect save for screen reflections and the outpost toilet scene because you agree with yourself that it must be a case of November.

nun meets me at the station,    first month with carol and dick reynolds.set the table.clean the kitchen.vacuum. thank god she didn't ask me to take care of the children. i dry  dishes in the afternoon.   watch her can apples from the backyard, put them in the cellar dark to save for winter. why is everything so quiet?   why does the man come home from school everyday at 3:30 and read the paper?   why a different casserole on the table every night and everyone eats one portion and one portion only?  why is there always enough, but never too much. . .