Wednesday, November 30, 2022

Autumn charms my melancholy mind

 The last day of November: the feast of Saint Andrew, and all kinds of Advent customs begin today.

It was rainy and grey and I made Christmas cookies, and listened to Christmas music.

We had another death here,  the third one in three weeks.  The sister was 98, and had just had surgery for a broken hip.  The surgery went well, and she was doing well, when all of a sudden - !!!  

artist: William Hawkins




I like this poem, by an author I'd never heard of:


Do not try to save

the whole world

or do anything grandiose.

Instead, create

a clearing

in the dense forest

of your life

and wait there

patiently,

until the song

that is your life

falls into your own cupped hands

and you recognize and greet it.

Only then will you know

how to give yourself

to this world

so worthy of rescue.

 

~ Martha Postlethwaite

 


artist:  Katrin Weitz Stein




I like this one, also:

November

 

by Elizabeth Stoddard

 

Much have I spoken of the faded leaf;

Long have I listened to the wailing wind,

And watched it ploughing through the heavy clouds;

For autumn charms my melancholy mind.

When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge:

The year must perish; all the flowers are dead;

The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail

Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled!

Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer,

The holly-berries and the ivy-tree:

They weave a chaplet for the Old Year's heir;

These waiting mourners do not sing for me!

I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods,

Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss;

The naked, silent trees have taught me this,—

The loss of beauty is not always loss!

 

artist: Jo Grundy



and this one, from one of my favorite poets, Wallace Stevens:

 

"It is hard to hear the north wind again,
And to watch the treetops, as they sway.

They sway, deeply and loudly, in an effort,
So much less than feeling, so much less than speech,

Saying and saying, the way things say
On the level of that which is not yet knowledge:

A revelation not yet intended.
It is like a critic of God, the world

And human nature, pensively seated
On the waste throne of his own wilderness.

Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier,
The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying."


-   Wallace Stevens, The Region November


artist: Matthew Hasty


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