Summer superfluity evaporates over a freezing fire; cold burns the fall.
Cornstalks (as they should) complete their dying; golden tear drops churn the fall.
Vigor tightens, rolls toward this, whirls onward shedding ribbons of excess.
What to plant, and where. Watch the sky. All our calculations concern the fall.
Old gold paper lines the walls. In the bed, the body is a kernel in a paper husk.
Soft pages rustle toward a close. Breathing slows. Watchers can discern the fall.
Blue heavens tingle through mortal veins, flame all cheeks, turn all drinks to cider.
Life stings--means so much in so short a space--a single cricket nocturnes the fall.
Beetles burrow under bark and wedge behind the woodwork. Birds take wing and flee.
Willing to die enough to see, if you stay, Swallow, will you learn the fall?
I LOVE the sounds in this one! And the imagery, of course, but the sounds just fascinate me. Great to read aloud.
ReplyDeleteA small spark of joy ignited brightly in my brain when I saw the form of this poem -- a ghazal! As I read the poem, well, I am almost deprived of words -- in the best possible way!
ReplyDeleteAuden said somewhere that the ideal poem is "an earthly paradise": and you have given us here something especially graced, a foretaste, perhaps, of that paradise whereof Auden speaks. The achievement of this poem, I believe, is equal to (if not beyond!) that of "I am wanting winter." You have made my day! Thank you.
Thank you, Dr. Impson and Thomas! I'm delighted you enjoyed this.
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