Poetry Sunday: The Death of the Flowers

What do you think of when you think of November? Gray days wrapped in mist and fog? Falling leaves? Crows calling from the tops of the pine trees? The end of the summer flowers? Well, William Cullen Bryant certainly seemed to think of the month in those rather gloomy terms.

The Death of the Flowers

by William Cullen Bryant

The melancholy days have come the saddest of the year

Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sere;

Heaped in the hollows of the grove the autumn leaves lie dead;

They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread;

The robin and the wren are flown and from the shrubs the jay
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers the fair young flowers that lately sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs a beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves the gentle race of flowers

Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours.

The rain is falling where they lie but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet they perished long ago

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;

But on the hill the goldenrod and the aster in the wood

And the blue sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven as falls the plague on men

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland glade and glen.

And now when comes the calm mild day as still such days will come

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard though all the trees are still

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died

The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.
In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forests cast the leaf

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:

Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours
So gentle and so beautiful should perish with the flowers.

~~~

Well, here in the subtropics the frost is still a few weeks away and we still have flowers, but as I read this, I was reminded of that old Peter, Paul, and Mary song. Remember this?

A blast from the past for you on this first day of November.

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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