Poetry Friday: Autumn, by Alice Cary

I love the way Alice Cary's "Autumn" captures so much of what I've been feeling and thinking of late about the approaching season. Just a few nights ago, I took the dog outside around 8 p.m. and was suddenly struck by the dimness of evening. "Hey," I felt the need to call out to anyone and everyone, "have you noticed how much shorter the days are getting already?" Of course, everyone had noticed. ("Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips the days....")

Yesterday was languidly warm — in the upper 80s! — and humid. I could almost convince myself that the day would stretch out, push itself past nine p.m., but alas ... ("Save when by fits the warmer air deceives....")

This week, each of us, in turn, made mention of the crickets that have moved into the garage.
("The robin.../Has given place to the brown cricket now.")

Linger then, over the loveliness of this poem, and Alice Cary's erstwhile but evergreen observations about the slow fade that is summer bowing out, making room for autumn.


Autumn
by Alice Cary

Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips
The days, as though the sunset gates they crowd,
And Summer from her golden collar slips
And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud,

Save when by fits the warmer air deceives,
And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,
She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves,
And tries the old tunes over for an hour.

(Read the whole thing here, at the Poetry Foundation.)

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The always lovely and wonderful Linda Baie has the roundup this week at TeacherDance. 

Poetry Friday: "Maybe if we reinvent whatever our lives give us...."

Here's a new-to-me poem from Naomi Shihab Nye. It's short; do click through and read the whole thing because it's delicious.

I think my favorite line (although it's always a challenge to pick a favorite line from one of her poems) is:

Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems.

Yes.

As one who has re-invented the unexpected, labyrinthine ways of her life, I say again: Yes.


Valentine for Ernest Mann
Naomi Shihab Nye

You can’t order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, “I’ll take two”
....

(Read the whole thing here, at Poets.org.)

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Laura Purdie Salas has the round-up this week at Writing the World for Kids. 

She's also hosting a giveaway of her new book, Snack, Snooze, Skedaddle! Check out the details in her post today.

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Photo courtesy of Pexels. 

Poetry Friday: Our *Last* First Day of School

Although Ramona started French class as an early-enrollment student at the college a couple of weeks ago, I have always waited to "officially" start our homeschool after Labor Day and this year is no different.

Well, one thing is different.

Today is the last first-day-of-school for Ramona and me. My last first-day-of-homeschooling forever. She's a senior this year. (Whaaaat?) We have thoughts and plans and aspirations for this year, of course. And we'll tackle them fiercely, knowing all the while that we have no idea what this year actually holds.

Have we ever known what a year holds, before that year takes hold of us? Not really. Life has an annoying funhouse quality, with unexpected twists and surprises around heretofore unseen and unconsidered corners. I love the way this poem by Henrietta Cordelia Ray captures the breathless, naive, but utterly lovable optimism of being human while acknowledging the as-yet unknown shadows and gloom that will inevitably color and shape every life. And yet we soldier on and continue to "climb the slopes of life with throbbing heart."

Here's to a school year propelled by an eager pulse, rich song, and eyes wide-stretched. We cannot repine, Henrietta. No, we cannot repine.

Aspiration
Henrietta Cordelia Ray

We climb the slopes of life with throbbing heart,
And eager pulse, like children toward a star.
Sweet siren music cometh from afar,
To lure us on meanwhile. Responsive start
The nightingales to richer song than Art
Can ever teach. No passing shadows mar
Awhile the dewy skies; no inner jar
Of conflict bids us with our quest to part.
We see adown the distance, rainbow-arched,
What melting aisles of liquid light and bloom!
We hasten, tremulous, with lips all parched,
And eyes wide-stretched, nor dream of coming gloom.
Enough that something held almost divine
Within us ever stirs. Can we repine?

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Sylvia Vardell has the round-up this week at Poetry for Children.

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(Photo courtesy of Barbara A. Lane at Pixabay.)