A Poem for the First Full Day of Autumn

The Harvest Moon by Ted Hughes from Season Songs (Faber & Faber)
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.

Harvest Moon by George Heming Mason

It's the first full day of autumn here in the northern hemisphere and from the activity in my backyard early this morning, I suspect the birds must sense the seasons have changed.  The robins and wrens have been feeding with a frenzy since dawn, plucking red berries from amidst the dappled leaves of the dogwood trees and poking around the fading wildflower garden for any lingering insects.  

I've been feeling that burst of fall energy as well-- making to do lists (actually a to do notebook as my Facebook friends know), reorganizing my home office, cleaning and clearing out clutter.  I think part of this energy, both mine and that of the birds, is an innate urge to prepare for winter.  Even though we haven't had our first frost yet, the robins are plumping up their rusty breasts and beginning to form flocks, while I'm replenishing my tea stocks and bringing up sweaters from the basement wardrobe.  

At the same time, though, I don't want to rush or work my way through autumn, missing out on its delights.  I want to be aware of the snap of yet another new-to-me tart apple from the farmer's market, pause as I notice the slightly deeper blue of the September sky, breathe in the old book scent of falling leaves.  One reason I chose today's poem by Ted Hughes is that it's one of the few autumn poems I have read that is truly focused on the present moment-- no lamenting the fruitfulness of summer or the songs of spring, no fretting about the cold winter days to come-- simply a celebration of a single autumn evening. 

(If you missed this year's harvest moon last week, you can take a quick break from being in the present to check out some great images on the EarthSky website here.)

Howling, stirring, lurking

Wind by Ted Hughes from Collected Poems (Farrar, Straus and Giroux)

This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet

Till day rose; then under an orange sky
The hills had new places, and wind wielded
Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.

At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as
The coal-house door. Once I looked up -
Through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my eyes
The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,

The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,
At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;
The wind flung a magpie away and a black-
Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house

Rang like some fine green goblet in the note
That any second would shatter it. Now deep
In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip
Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,

Or each other. We watch the fire blazing,
And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,
Seeing the window tremble to come in,
Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.

 

Last night the wind picked up and howled around the house like a pack of hungry wolves. This morning when I woke up the clouds were pressing down on the sea compressing the light into a ribbon of illumination.   

I love to watch the effects of the wind on the landscape and sky. It always amazes me how at times it can whip loose clothes, hair, leaves, trash can lids into a frenzy yet the clouds sit stonily in an expanse of blue sky.  At other times, the air on the ground is stoic and still while the clouds race across the horizon like it's field day in the heavens. 

I'm reminded of the movement of the Spirit in my life and in the world.  At times I'm keenly aware of its presence, stirring things up, uprooting, lashing, howling, creating noise and chaos and movement.  Then there are those seasons of my life where things appear tranquil and still on the surface yet when I look back I can see the Universe was hard at work in ways I was unaware of at the time. 

It makes me wonder what's happening behind the clouds, under the sea, in the dark recesses of my soul today . . .