Raywood Ash in St Pancras and Islington Cemetery

Dear Readers, back in 2021 I posted two selections of autumn poems here and here so I think that it’s time for a few more! First up, this one by T.E. Hulme. Simple but effective, I think.

Autumn by T.E. Hulme

A touch of cold in the Autumn night—
I walked abroad,
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded,
And round about were the wistful stars
With white faces like town children.

My favourite swamp cypress in St Pancras and Islington Cemetery

And in honour of Louise Glück, who died a few weeks ago aged 80, here is her autumn poem, written in 2022 and featuring her sister, who died in 2018. There is loss and sadness here, but also a sense of curiosity and wonder. See what you think.

The Poem: Autumn by Louise Glück

The part of life
devoted to contemplation
was at odds with the part
committed to action.

Fall was approaching.
But I remember
it was always approaching
once school ended.

Life, my sister said,
is like a torch passed now
from the body to the mind.
Sadly, she went on, the mind is not
there to receive it.

The sun was setting.
Ah, the torch, she said.
It has gone out, I believe.
Our best hope is that it’s flickering,
fort/da, fort/da, like little Ernst
throwing his toy over the side of his crib
and then pulling it back. It’s too bad,
she said, there are no children here.
We could learn from them, as Freud did.

We would sometimes sit
on benches outside the dining room.
The smell of leaves burning.

Old people and fire, she said.
Not a good thing. They burn their houses down.

How heavy my mind is,
filled with the past.
Is there enough room for the world to penetrate?
It must go somewhere, it cannot simply sit on the surface —

Stars gleaming over the water.
The leaves piled, waiting to be lit.

Insight, my sister said.
Now it is here.
But hard to see in the darkness.

You must find your footing
before you put your weight on it.

And of course, finally, here’s a Mary Oliver, just to speed us on our way….

Song for Autumn

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

So, let me know what you think, and what poems I’ve missed!

Earthstar fungus from St Pancras and Islington Cemetery