Saturday, October 8, 2011

My attempt to say, I exist...

Everyone's a poet in the autumn. I collected some leaves while walking the dog yesterday morning, and then generally enjoyed a fairly melancholy day. You know the sort of day, when everything you write and do seems like rubbish. Complete and Utter Rubbish. I wrote five lines which seem a bit more salvageable this morning.  Worked half the day on them before giving up. Took a bunch of photos, too.  Rubbish. And lo and behold, this morning I quite like them.  

The blurrier version of above:

We have an old book of Tennyson poems. I tried to focus on "Who dabbling...."

I posted the first photo on Flickr with the link to this poem which appears in The New Yorker:

Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

—Adam Zagajewski

Another fall-ish poem by Henri Cole found on Verse Daily:

Poor summer, it doesn't know it's dying.
A few days are all it has. Still, the lake
is with me, its strokes of blue-violet
and the fiery sun replacing loneliness.
I feel like an animal that has found a place.
This is my burrow, my nest, my attempt
to say, I exist. A rose can't shut itself
and be a bud again. It's a malady,
wanting it. On the shore, the moon sprinkles
light over everything, like a campfire,
and in the green-black night, the tall pines
hold their arms out as God held His arms
out to say that He was lonely and that
He was making Himself a man.

 {Poor summer, it doesn't know it's dying...}

And now it is the long weekend. Hoping yours is full of poetry...

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