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.)

Wherever

It Was Early by Mary Oliver from Evidence (Beacon Press)
It was early,
  which has always been my hour
    to begin looking
      at the world

and of course,
  even in the darkness,
    to begin
      listening into it,

especially
  under the pines
    where the owl lives
      and sometimes calls out

as I walk by,
  as he did
    on this morning.
      So many gifts!

What do they mean?
  In the marshes
    where the pink light
      was just arriving

the mink
  with his bristle tail
    was stalking
      the soft-eared mice,

and in the pines
  the cones were heavy,
    each one
      ordained to open.

Sometimes I need
  only to stand
    wherever I am
      to be blessed.

Little mink, let me watch you.
  Little mice, run and run.
    Dear pine cone, let me hold you
      as you open.

Edward Hopper - Cape Cod Morning

For some reason, I've been awake early these past few mornings.  It's still dark outside when I open my eyes so I lie in bed and listen to the world waking up outside my window.  At first I wonder how I've managed to sleep through the insect noises during the night.  The crickets and cicadas drown out the sounds of the pre-dawn commuters on Connecticut Avenue.  As the traffic picks up, so do the birds arriving in the backyard looking for breakfast.  Before too long I'll start hearing the early morning honks of geese flying overhead but for now it's mainly the tweets and whistles of robins, wrens, and the occasional caws of a murder of crows.

With the birds, comes a tinge of light.  I've been pulling back my curtains, trying to see the sunrise but the horizon is obscured by trees and houses.  Rather than a dramatic, colorful unfolding, day light arrives like a faulty halogen light, taking its time getting brighter.    By the time the bus pauses at the stop nearby and announces in its automated female voice, "L8, Friendship Heights," morning has arrived.

Sometimes I read Mary Oliver and wonder if I'd be more of a morning person if I could step out of my house and walk a few yards into the woods, to the beach, or to a nearby pond.  And sometimes I need only to stand (or lie) wherever I am to be blessed.

A Poem for Earth Day

'Nature' Is What We See by Emily Dickinson
'Nature' is what we see--
The Hill-- the Afternoon--
Squirrel--Eclipse--the Bumble bee--
Nay--Nature is Heaven--
Nature is what we hear--
The Boblink--the Sea--
Thunder--the Cricket--
Nay--Nature is Harmony--
Natures is what we know--
Yet have no art to say--
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.

This weekend I spent part of each day playing in the dirt-- planting poppies, herbs and a rose bush, sowing seeds in the wildflower and butterfly garden, digging up and moving rogue lilies to place where they can actually get some sun and blossom.  While my hands were busy digging, my eyes and ears were open. 

If nature is what I saw while I was engaged in this work of co-creating, it's the broken robin's egg under the flowering pink dogwood, sprouts of lily of the valley poking up through the mud, a rabbit pulling up dried grass to make a nest by the front porch, the blue and yellow blossoms of forget-me-nots.

If nature is what I heard, it was the chatter and creaks of a pair of rusty blackbirds warning me away from their nest in my neighbor's yard, the rustle of wind blowing through the new leaves on the maple trees, the buzz of a bumble bee hovering over fragrant white alyssum.

I read Emily Dickinson's poem as an invitation to attentiveness, an encouragement to be in the present moment, an act which, for me, often leads to gratitude.  When I go out for a walk later this afternoon I'll again have my eyes and ears open and come back with a different litany of what nature is. 

So on this Earth Day, I invite you to join Emily and I looking and listening, in considering what nature is for you . . .

Open and free

Ah, Come Sit Beside Me by Jiddu Krishnamurti from Darkness to Light:  Poems and Parables  (Harper & Row)

Ah, come sit beside me by the sea, open and free.
I will tell thee of that inward calmness
As of the still deep;
Of that inward freedom
As of the skies;
Of that inward happiness
As of the dancing waters.

And as now the moon makes a silent path on the dark sea,
So beside me lies the clear path of pure understanding.
The groaning sorrow is hid under a mocking smile,
The heart is heavy with the burden of corruptible love,
The deceptions of the mind pervert thought.

Ah, come sit beside me
Open and free.
As the even flow of clear sunlight,
So shall thine understanding come to thee.
The burdensome fear of anxious waiting
Shall go from thee as the waters recede before the rushing winds.

Ah, come sit beside me,
Thou shalt know of the understanding of true love.
As the mind drives the blind clouds,
So shall thy brutish prejudice be driven by clear thought.

The moon is in love with the sun
And the stars fill the skies with their laughter.

Oh, come sit beside me
Open and free.

 

 

No commentary today, just the invitation to take some time to just sit, open and free . . .

 

 

A gift of a spring snowfall

Blue Grapes by Tess Gallagher from Moon Crossing Bridge (Gray Wolf Press)
Eating blue grapes
          near the window
     and looking out
          at the snow-covered valley.
For a moment, the deep world
          gazing back.  Then a blue jay
     scatters snow from a bough.
No world, no meeting.  Only
          tremors, sweetness
                             on the tongue.


I thought about this poem when I woke up this morning to a snow covered yard.  Unfortunately I didn't have any blue grapes in the house so I had to settle for a cup of tea in a blue mug to compliment the view out my window.  Still, it was an opportunity to simply be in the moment, to feel the heat seeping through the pottery as my hand curved around the cup, to watch how the snowflakes looked as if they were being sifted from the heavens.  Who can complain about snow in spring when it offers such gifts?

An Inside Out Kind of Morning

THE OLD POETS OF CHINA by Mary Oliver from Why I Wake Early (Beacon Press)
Wherever I am, the world comes after me.
It offers me its busyness. It does not believe
that I do not want it. Now I understand
why the old poets of China went so far and high
into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.


It's one of those days where I feel like I'm wearing my skin inside out and everything is irritating me-- the frenetic Schumann violin piece on the radio that scrambled my energy like a sous chef beating an omelet, the keyboard of my lap top which seems to extend just a quarter inch too far so I can't find a comfortable place for my wrists, the apple I cut up for breakfast that developed a thin layer of slimy juice on it in the trip from the kitchen to my desk.  Even the work I have to do that had me energized last week seems like a nuisance today, little biting flies buzzing around the corner of my mind as I try to get in my two hours of morning writing.

Before Schumann got me riled up, I already knew I was having an off day.  It took perusing five books and countless on-line collections of Mary Oliver's poetry before I found a poem that elicited more than an, "Eh," from me this morning.  The one I finally chose got a, "Hmmm," which I figured was the best I could muster today.  The "hmmm" came as I was thinking about the world and its busyness.  Does it really come after me or is it just there and I react to it, accept its invitation, sometimes even seek it out?

Maybe the mountain wasn't the important thing for the old poets, but the mist that covered them with a soft grey blanket of obscurity so all they could do was snuggle up to what was right in front of them and enjoy the present moment. 

A Prayer in My Boot

A PRAYER IN MY BOOT
by Naomi Shihab Nye from 19 Varieties of Gazelle: Poems of the Middle East (Harper Collins)

For the wind no one expected

For the boy who does not know the answer

For the graceful handle I found in a field
attached to nothing
pray it is universally applicable

For our tracks which disappear
the moment we leave them

For the face peering through the cafe window
as we sip our soup

For cheerful American classrooms sparkling
with crisp colored alphabets
happy cat posters
the cage of the guinea pig
the dog with division flying out of his tail
and the classrooms of our cousins
on the other side of the earth
how solemn they are
how gray or green or plain
how there is nothing dangling
nothing striped or polka-dotted or cheery
no self-portraits or visions of cupids
and in these rooms the students raise their hands
and learn the stories of the world

For library books in alphabetical order
and family businesses that failed
and the house with the boarded windows
and the gap in the middle of a sentence
and the envelope we keep mailing ourselves

For every hopeful morning given and given
and every future rough edge
and every afternoon
turning over in its sleep


Yesterday I confessed to not being able to live in the moment lately.  Naomi Shihab Nye offers a good remedy for that.  By carrying a prayer in my boot (or, ballet flat as is more often the case), ordinary encounters become opportunities to pause for a moment of mindfulness, gratitude, grace . . .

For what are you carrying a prayer in your boot today?

Mary Oliver Monday - Morning Poem

MORNING POEM
by Mary Oliver from New and Selected Poems:  Volume One  (Beacon Press)

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.


I'm usually one of those people who, as Mary Oliver describes in this poem, happily swims through the day.  Lately, however, I feel like I've been trudging, stumbling, lumbering along the path.  My imagination isn't flitting around from idea to idea like a sprightly sparrow or curious magpie; it's either pulling apart the past or looming over the future like a bird of prey. 

I try to remind myself to listen for what the beast inside me is shouting it wants and needs, to look for the prayers heard and answered.  The world isn't just created every morning, it's created every minute. 


How are you daring to be happy?  Daring to pray? 

What We Need is Here

WHAT WE NEED IS HERE
by Wendell Berry from Selected Poems (Counterpoint)

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes.  Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith:  what we need
is here.  And we pray, not
for a new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear.  What we need is here.  

Next year I need to see if I can do a week or two on geese poems.  There's something about the image of these birds in particular that makes poets take note.  Maybe it's the way a flock of geese often resembles a big check mark scrawled across the sky, as if their presence affirms something about our life on earth that's been written in the heavens-- something we have to pause and ponder to be able to read. 

What message is being made clear to you today?

What do you need, that is here?