When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not
and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
Read rest of W.S. Merwin’s “To the Light of September”
(poetry diary 13) This poem cracks me up a little. It’s like, “Wait, it’s you, September? Really? Really? I thought you were August!”
Happy September, even though it still feels like summer (as it technically is summer!) If you’re feeling weird it might be because, as Karina Borowicz writes in “September Tomatoes,” “Something in [you] isn’t ready/to let go of summer so easily.”
Borowicz throws away tomato vines during the poem, and talks regretfully of how
It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready
to let go of summer so easily. To destroy
what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months.
Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit.
Read rest of “September Tomatoes”
Ah, well. Soon “will the winter be on us,” writes Sara Teasdale, “Snow-hushed and heavy.”
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.