September!

Hello everyone – 

September is a month full of activities, celebrations, and changes in the natural world around us. Here is a trio of poems welcome in this month of new beginnings and opportunities!

 

“A Calendar of Sonnets: September”

By Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)

O golden month! How high thy gold is heaped!
The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strung
On wands; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongue
To every wind its harvest challenge. Steeped
In yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped;
And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked among
The yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrung
Her utmost gold. To highest boughs have leaped
The purple grape,--last thing to ripen, late
By very reason of its precious cost.
O Heart, remember, vintages are lost
If grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait.
Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate,
Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost!

 

“A Song of Early Autumn”

By Richard Watson Gilder (1844-1909)

When late in summer the streams run yellow,

Burst the bridges and spread into bays;

When berries are black and peaches are mellow,

And hills are hidden by rainy haze;

When the goldenrod is golden still,

But the heart of the sunflower is darker and sadder;

When the corn is in stacks on the slope of the hill,

And slides over the path the striped adder;

When butterflies flutter from clover to thicket,

Or wave their wings on the drooping leaf;

When the breeze comes shrill with the call of the cricket,

Grasshopper’s rasp, and rustle of sheaf;

When high in the field the fern-leaves wrinkle,

And brown is the grass where the mowers have mown;

When low in the meadow the cow-bells tinkle,

And small brooks crinkle over stock and stone;

When heavy and hollow the robin’s whistle

And shadows are deep in the heat of noon;

When the air is white with the down of the thistle,

And the sky is red with the Harvest Moon;

O, then be chary, young Robert and Mary,

No time let slip, not a moment wait!

If the fiddle would play it must stop its tuning;

And they who would wed must be done with their mooning;

So let the churn rattle, see well to the cattle,

And pile the wood by the barn-yard gate!

 

FROM THE POEMS OF H. P. LOVECRAFT (1890-1937)

[Editor’s Note: H. P. Lovecraft is regarded by literary scholars as the “Edgar Allan Poe” of the 20^th century. He was an imaginative author of “weird fiction” – a genre that combines science fiction, fantasy, and horror – and also an accomplished poet. His work has inspired, among others, the creators/writers of Babylon 5 and Doctor Who.]

Fungi from Yuggoth (A Sonnet Cycle)

By H. P. Lovecraft (1890-1937)

(Yuggoth is the name of Pluto in HPL’s “weird fiction” and poetic writings. Fomalhaut, known as the “Lonely Star,” is the only bright star in the southern sky on autumn evenings as seen from the American Midwest. It is known to have a planetary system and two dim companion stars, too.)

 

Sonnet XIV: “Star-Winds”

It is a certain hour of twilight glooms,

Mostly in autumn, when the star-wind pours

Down hilltop streets, deserted out-of-doors,

But shewing early lamplight from snug rooms.

The dead leaves rush in strange, fantastic twists,

And chimney-smoke whirls round with alien grace,

Heeding geometries of outer space,

While Fomalhaut peers in through southward mists.

This is the hour when moonstruck poets know

What fungi sprout in Yuggoth, and what scents

And tints of flowers fill Nithon’s continents,

Such as in no poor earthly garden blow.

Yet for each dream these winds to us convey,

A dozen more of ours they sweep away!

 

A Works Progress Administration (WPA) poster from 1940. (Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

 

Until next time –

Rob 😊