Post poems about October here

[Zomby Woof]

One of my favorite months. In fact, I rank it in my Top 12!

Here is one by Dylan Thomas:

"Poem In October"

It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.

My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.

A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.

It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singingbirds.

And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning.

[SOteric]

1. Not exactly ~about~ October,

but I have always found the imagery of T.S. Eliot's work, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock to be superlative. See the 3rd stanza, which I've highlighted in bold type.



S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go 35
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

Do I dare 45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

It is perfume from a dress 65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . 110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old … 120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me. 125

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

[Zomby Woof]

3. Wonderful

And if it mentions October in passing, so it counts. :-)

But for the imagery alone, I sure am not going to be strict about posting rules, lol.

Some coffee to go with the poetry reading... :donut:

[AVulgarianHue]

2. A Vagabond Song

There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood—

Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.


Bliss Carman

[Zomby Woof]

4. Thank you!

"The scarlet of the maples...", my favorite line.

[CaliforniaPeggy]

5. Here's one by Ray Bradbury...Rekindlement: Long Thoughts at

Halloween, 1977.

Come whisper me a promise,
Come sit upon my stone,
Come lean the winds of autumn
And say me not alone.
Come tell me of Tomorrow
When I will come reborn
Forgetful of all Hallows
And fresh with Christmas morn.
Come say I'll live forever,
And skull and bones not mine,
Come prove that graves are shallow
Where God but saves old wine,
And bottles souls and bins them
In vintages gone fine.

Come say that tombs are balsa
As light as thistledown,
And all God needs is whistle
And we are swiftly flown--
A milkweed ectoplasm
That tossed, fills Universe
At these words from His mouthing:
"Stand tall! All Time, reverse!"
Take on new flesh and knowing
Forget that lengthy Dust,
Rise up in mad bells pealing
In Feverings, fresh lust,
To cover stars and shape them
Far livelier than fires,
To honeycomb and seed-wind,
To all that God admires.
Be Son, be Daughter, flying,
Where Time stops, start it up!
At every star-hole, crying,
Thrust Life and fill the cup.
Cut this for me on gravestone?
Speak this into my grave?
Yes, future children, hear me:
Tell old man to be brave
While waiting years of fallow
Until with young man's cry
Say: Ghost, good Time's your saviour
God will not pass you by.

He holds you in His reckon,
All's kept, re-used, all's thrift,
With new womb bright He'll beckon
From old tomb birth Life's gift.
From dust and death commingled
He takes dark flints to smite
And from your bones, thus smitten--
Lo!
Ten billion years of Light!

[XemaSab]

6. Just out of curiosity,

what are the other 11?

And in the spirit of the thread,

"The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime."

-Wallace Stevens
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

[flvegan]

7. This won't help my popularity, but "October" by U2

October and the trees are stripped bare
Of all they wear.
What do I care?

October and kingdoms rise
And kingdoms fall
But you go on
And on.

[CaliforniaPeggy]

8. Of course, this thread is ZombyWoof's....but all the same, this bit

of lyric counts as far as I am concerned......

It's cool......thanks!


:hi:

[flvegan]

10. I like the older U2 stuff, anyway.

Not that it matters. Good lyrics.

[GrpCaptMandrake]

9. Gary Snyder

You said, that October,
In the tall dry grass by the orchard
When you chose to be free,
"Again someday, maybe ten years."

After college I saw you
One time. You were strange.
And I was obsessed with a plan.

Now ten years and more have
Gone by: I've always known
where you were--
I might have gone to you
Hoping to win your love back.
You still are single.

I didn't.
I thought I must make it alone. I
Have done that.

Only in dream, like this dawn,
Does the grave, awed intensity
Of our young love
Return to my mind, to my flesh.

We had what the others
All crave and seek for;
We left it behind at nineteen.

I feel ancient, as though I had
Lived many lives.
And may never now know
If I am a fool
Or have done what my
karma demands.

[jus_the_facts]

11. Ahhh fall's my favorite time o'the year.....

Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.

~Carl Sandburg~

[GrpCaptMandrake]

13. What a Cool Juxtaposition!

Snyder and Sandburg. Carl Sandburg put down the dirt that Gary Snyder gravelled.

[jus_the_facts]

14. Indeed....

[GrpCaptMandrake]

15. Heard Snyder Friday

on ATC on pubradio. Was fiftieth anniversary of first reading of "Howl," and Gary Snyder opined. He's still like icewater. Would love to see him and Kurt Vonnegut on stage together, rapping.

On the other hand, I heard Alan Ginsburg's voice and heard an echo of Michael Wiener's and remembered that Weiner ("the Savage") once wrote a postacard to Alan wherein he said, having observed the native Fijians, he wished to stick a lens up Ginsburg's hindquarters.

Is it not amazing that a man who once cavorted nakedly in various and sundry tubs with Alan Ginsburg should transform himself into the virulently hompphobic, solitary-dining Michael Savage? Or is that what happens to all dis-illusioned liberals? Janice Rodgers Brown was once a Maoist. I think she still is. COme, to think of it, I don't care much for Maoists.

Is George Bush a Maoist? If he could've sobered up long enough, and understood that Mao wasn't followed by "u-s-e," might George have been a Maoist?

We may well figure out how many licks to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop before we know the answer to that one!

[jus_the_facts]

18. LOL...I did not know that...

...I loathe Michael Savage!

[GrpCaptMandrake]

20. Have a look at

http://www.michaelsavagesucks.com

It's all there, including the reference to the Ginsburg Collection at Stanford.

B-T-W: look up "sonderkommando" He fits that description, too.

I hate that bastard.

[WCGreen]

21. He is such a dink....

[jus_the_facts]

22. Damn....

....didn't realize there were websites devoted to loathin' him...glad there are many others out there who do as well...thanks for the link!

[trackfan]

12. Ulalume, by Edgar Allan Poe

The Skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crispèd and sere,
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir:
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll,
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole,
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,
Our memories were treacherous and sere,
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year,
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn,
As the star-dials hinted of morn,
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn,
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said—"She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs,
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies,
To the Lethean peace of the skies:
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes:
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said—"Sadly this star I mistrust,
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:
Oh, hasten!—oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!—let us fly! for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust,
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust,
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied—"This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its sibyllic splendor is beaming
With hope and in beauty to-night:
See, it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright:
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom,
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb,
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said—"What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume—
'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crispèd and sere,
As the leaves that were withering and sere,
And I cried—"It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed—I journeyed down here,
That I brought a dread burden down here:
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber,
This misty mid region of Weir:
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

[amerikat]

16. My mothers favorite....October's Party

October's Party
George Cooper

October gave a party;
The leaves by hundreds came-
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow,
The Oaks in crimson dressed;
The lovely Misses Maple
In scarlet looked their best;
All balanced to their partners,
And gaily fluttered by;
The sight was like a rainbow
New fallen from the sky.

Then, in the rustic hollow,
At hide-and-seek they played,
The party closed at sundown,
And everybody stayed.
Professor Wind played louder;
They flew along the ground;
And then the party ended
In jolly "hands around."

[Whoa_Nelly]

17. Spooky Poem!

Not really :)



Five little pumpkins
Sitting on a gate
The first one said,
"Oh my, it's getting late!"
The second one said,
"There are witches in the air!"
The third one said,
"But, we don't care!"
The fourth one said,
"Let's run and run and run!"
The fifth one said,
"I'm ready for some fun!"
"WOOOOOOOH", went the wind,
And OUT went the light;
And the five little pumpkins
Rolled out of sight!

[WCGreen]

19. It's a song, but that would be a poem

Tom Rush, Urge for Goin'

And I awoke today and found the frost perched on the town
It hovered in a frozen sky and gobbled summer down
When the sun turns traitor cold
And shivering trees are standing in a naked row
I get the urge for going but I never seem to go

And I get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down winter's closing in

I had a girl in summertime with summer colored skin
And not another man in town my darling's heart could win
But when the leaves fell trembling down
And bully winds did rub their face down in the snow
She got the urge for going I had to let her go

She got the urge for going when the meadow grass was turning brown
And summertime was falling down and winters closing in

Now the warriors of winter they give a cold triumphant shout
All that stays is dying all that lives is getting out
See the geese in chevron flight
Flapping and a-racin on before the snow
They got the urge for going they've got the wings to go

And they get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter's closing in

I'll ply the fire with kindling, I'll pull the blankets to my chin
I'll lock the vagrant winter out I'll bolt my wandering in
I'd like to call back summertime
And have her stay for just another month or so
But she's got the urge for going I guess she'll have to go

And she's gets the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning
brown
All her empire's are falling down winter's closing in
And I get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown
And summertime is falling down


Me

It's meloncholy, after the fresh brush of September and the promise of fall...
Turns into winter, nipping, clipping and the sound of that last baseball....

[Zomby Woof]

23. Thanks EVERYONE!

Keep them coming! I love the variety of contributions here. Just go with what you know and enjoy - I don't have any set rules here. :-)