Again, September
where the leaves begin their long surrender
and I hold fast to every before and after.
Above me, a cacophony of geese, recycling their
rites of spring, fashion themselves into a lopsided
victory sign, sticking their faith in the future's eye,
and I salute them, metaphorically at least.
Remember when poetry was something that happened to you,
when it pierced you through and through and through?
When it kissed your knees and encased you in light?
An apple of Newton’s, God’s own Eureka!
Of course you do, and I’m happy—
so pitifully glad to be a part of the mad, happy dance—
yet there’s something to words that makes one a surgeon,
prone to the dissection and rearranging of miracles.
So that even as sunshine slides down my sleeve
and empties my pocket of gold and debris,
a part of the self hangs back, detached,
making of the present a more beautiful past.
“It was different back then,”
but the difference is in the remembering,
as we stuck each moment like buddhas on pogo sticks,
so Zen we thought eternity could be numbered in
the days before Christmas.
Players on an infant stage, not knowing such
scenes would grow heavier with replay,
we ignored the warning in our grandparents' examples
—bodies bird-light, faces sharpened into arrows—
backs bowed over with layers of sediment.
Is it possible the phoenix looks to us for inspiration?
We are the only backward-looking, forward-driven creatures of nature
and autumn is our renewable feast, a creaky time machine set on ache
one more chance for the leaves to scatter
so we might leap backward and fore, transitioning
forever, into our piles of lukewarm nostalgia, waiting to
see where the colors will land so we may jump
again
10 comments:
It's like coming home.
You, Sarah, poet like few others.
I am stuck on this: "We are the only backward-looking, forward driven creatures of nature."
Does it help us?
I wonder.
For me, fall has always had that crisp feeling of possibility that I think I still associate with the return to college. The smell of autumn air takes me to that "place" in a heartbeat--it is some almalgam of football games (though I went to a women's college!) late nights with friends, a carefree exuberance where everything was still possible and nothing had been truly carved yet.
It is nostalgia, however fleeting.
This is beautiful. Thank you for posting it.
I'm not sure whether it helps or hurts or (probably) does both. I suppose it's all about balance. Treasuring the past, reflecting on the lessons and memories we value most, while not feeling it drag or weigh on our present and future.
I'm always drawn to the bittersweet. I think there's something contradictory about autumn, and people too. As I grow older, I tend to slightly favor fall to spring.
And yes, I feel that sense of "place" more with autumn than any other season, just like you do. Maybe my nostalgia falls a little younger than yours, though. Halloween, pumpkin carving, playing after school in the leaves...ahhh. Being a parent adds another layer of memory, of course.
Thank you for your beautiful comments. Always.
Beautiful indeed.
So many lines in which I found myself.
Thanks for this.
Backward looking, forward driven. how true. Never really thought of it in so many words before. But very interesting.
"So that even as sunshine slides down my sleeve"
The above line struck a chord. How well you craft your words. Good to see you after a long time.
Thanks for this.
Joy always,
Susan
Okay, I think I need a drink now. (No not Mountain Dew, a real drink.
"Players on an infant stage, not knowing such scenes would grow heavier with replay" How, just how, you come up with these is beyond me...
I'll have to look for a much stronger word than 'gifted' to introduce you to anyone.
I hereby hire you to write and recite stuff for my marriage, obituary and everything that comes in between.
Ok, bye. Time to re-read this thing.
Sarah, thank you for the wonderful comment.
Charles, I'm usually spinning in circles.
Susan Deborah, so good to see you again. Thank you!
Aniket, come on. I'm going to drop off before you do. But your wedding? Sure thing. So long as I have a front row seat.
One thing I love about this piece is how you span so much that's generational in it. (My interpretation at least.) You have the "now" of the narrator, but reference the grandparents and get playful with the leaf jumping, too. It's all wrapped in nicely.
As always, you have a way with words that is entirely YOU and entirely fabulous.
Thanks, Wendy. I think this one was sparked by a dream of my dead grandma. So you're quite right to pull that all together.
One of these days, I'm going to write a straightforward poem. One of these days...
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