(This has got to be my very favorite painting depicting autumn, and I unashamedly use it over and over in my blog!)
"September: it was the most beautiful of words, he'd always felt, evoking orange flowers, swallows, and regret."
~ Alexander Theroux ~
Last autumn, I was all about writing: I was consumed with setting down the fictional, vintage-style diary called The Autumn Sketch Book of Bess Stanhope, a 1920s school teacher in North Dakota. This year, I seem to be into art: the Victorian - or at least traditional - type paintings of autumn, and the lyrical poetry of September, written by others far more talented than myself.
Therefore, I'm sharing some September songs - words and images of this beautiful time of year.
"Tang of fruitage in the air;
Red boughs bursting everywhere;
Shimmering of seeded grass;
Hooded gentians all a'mass.
Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind
Tearing off the husky rind,
Blowing feathered seeds to fall
By the sun-baked, sheltering wall.
Beech trees in golden haze;
Hardy sumachs all ablaze,
Glowing through the silver birches.
How that pine tree shouts and lurches!
From the sunny door-jamb high,
Swings the shell of a butterfly.
Scrape of insect violins
Through the stubble shrilly dins.
Every blade's a minaret
Where a small muezzin's set,
Loudly calling us to pray
At the miracle of day.
Then the purple-lidded night
Westering comes, her footsteps light
Guided by the radiant boon
Of a sickle-shaped new moon."
~ Amy Lowell~ "Late September"
"The breezes taste
Of apple peel,
The air is full
Of smells to feel -
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
New books and blackboards
Chalk in class.
The bee, his hive
While Mother cuts
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze."
~ John Updike ~ "September"
"I have come to a still, but not a deep center,
A point outside the glittering current;
My eyes stare at the bottom of a river,
At the irregular stones, iridescent sand grains,
My mind moves in more than one place,
In a country half-land, half-water.
I am renewed by death, thought of my death
The dry scent of a dying garden in September,
The wind fanning the ash of a low fire.
What I love is near at hand,
Always, in earth and air."
~ Theodore Roethke ~ "The Far Field"
"There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!"
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley ~
"The golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown
The trees in apple orchards