Many Words for Brown

Umber, ochre, tawny, tan,
so many shifts and shades
of autumn fall around me,
a long brown sentence
punctuated by the silence
of a single black dog.

Amber, copper, auburn, rust,
the rustle of leaves,
taking leave of their branches,
twisting brown paths
of autumn’s old map,
read by a single black dog.

Sorrel, sienna, ginger, bronze,
swashes of color wash
over a landscape mural,
a master’s Diego painted
in a wind, using a single hair
from the tail of a black dog.

©2014 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved

Projecting ahead a few hours:

THE MOONLIT WOOD

Light holds its breath
in monochromed silence;
dappled and striped
in silver and black.
This woodland
is owled and foxed
and moused with faint whispers,
while the moon makes cathedrals
Of trees and dark shadows
and fills up the nave
With those that are lost.
Now the wind choirs
the night
With twig-whispered anthems
and the bell
of the owl-call
Tolls out the hour.

Thanks for the photos and other poems; just wonderful. Here's my small contribution:

See how that last leaf,
alone on its bed of green,
holds the day’s light,
creates its own golden essence,
as if all life began here,
in this moment.

©2014 by Glenda Cotter.

Hi Terri

Wonderful photographs -- so reminiscent for me of the season progressing through its changing phases in New York State. It's so much different out here in the high desert of Southern California. This year Autumn came later, very late and I thought the Summer would never leave. So the transformation took place on a certain day when the winds brought in the scent of rain and some much longed for coolness. The day, itself, is personified in this poem about the season's sudden arrival and the emotional influence on all that interacts with its.

A Late Approach

The day keeps mostly still
corset-stiff with heat and laced
in high degrees. She has worn
this garment for months --- moving
in little wind and layers of glare.

The nights have lingered
in too much warmth - - causing her to turn
the hours restless and the leaf shrivel
on trees to rhythmic ticking.

How many seconds
before they pass, denied their right
to blush, flame and swirl
wanton in a lip-moist wind?

Her clock spell (cast upon them)
gives no answer, and she soon
discovers this -- Autumn
has just spared time for her

and has not forgotten
how to love. The season enters
so cool and damp, rain
breath-fallen on the hill. Its scent

pure and pined-for while the moon
glows like the match flame
that could light a candle;
and beckons a bird to sing
in its briar leaves at night.

Only at night - a lover's song
when Fall comes at first
to lull the heat and loosen
the breeze. When memories
disrobe in a darkness lengthened
to ease the sun, tender the heart.
___________________________________

My Best
Wendy

Hi Stuart

This is exquisite! You capture the mystery and the ritual of an Autumn night with haunting language and imagery. I can picture this scene vividly and am drawn into those moonlit woods. The entire piece flows together with strength and fine structure -- so its hard to pick a favorite passage. But this one really stayed with me -

This woodland
is owled and foxed
and moused with faint whispers,
while the moon makes cathedrals
Of trees and dark shadows
and fills up the nave
With those that are lost.

Thank you for sharing
Best
Wendy

Hi Kip

A lovely, pastoral with such an uplifting last line. Yes,
"we must dance", celebrate the season's fire and beauty!

Thanks
Wendy

Wow--thanks Wendy and Terri. It's dark and cold and rainy here. I responded immediately to Terri's autumn.

Jane

Lovely.

I'm afraid I am going to be the blotch amongst the beauty in your combox, because I can not come up with lovely words. But I do want to say that these pictures seem to capture, at least for me, the peace and the communion of the woods. I think of how, beneath that rich and heavy ground, the underside of the trees (or perhaps what the trees themselves consider their primary bodies) are singing away to each other ... and in the air above, there is peace like the long, gentle sighing-out of their decomposed words.

Beautiful, Sarah. So many wonders from you all.

In the sixth image, I see a stairway. It leads up and to the right. Can you see it? Let's go!

Thanks so much Jane
for taking the time to read and comment.
I deeply appreciate it and love the way you
signed off on this commentary.

Best
Wendy

I was late again, due to family urgency. I am waiting for a call. And so many poems. I will have to read
them all over again, Jane, Wendy, Glenda, Kip and Stuart. Have I missed any-one. This is like
quilting. We thread through the greenery, a words leaf out on twigs and limbs. We are given a place,
a time, wonders.

and all the while they sang
this song for life
for love
peace

Jane, I love this and my husband does too and asked me to send his appreciation.

Another thought...perhaps if we take the idea of paper made from trees still having seasons, then libraries should be seen as forests and bookshelves as woods and spinneys and coppices, depending on the size.

Then in Stuart's library of the autumn woods, the owl is the librarian. The metaphor keeps extending!!!

Metaphors be with you all, friends.

Jane

Terri--I have said this before. Find a small publisher in Britain who wants to do The Tilly Poems: An Artist's Dog Who Inspired a Parcel of Poets. With your photos. One chapter or section per season.

Jane

Hi Stuart

Thank you so much for taking the time to read and comment on this piece. I am very glad you liked that phrase and it worked within the context of this poem.

Your thoughts are much appreciated!
Best
Wendy

Hi Phyllis

the title is wondrous and drew me right in -- followed by a magical poem. I love how you describe Tilly's presence in the poem and how we all can imbibe the magic of the moor and its diverse myths from afar, namely the power of
the heart and the mind. These lines convey that thought so well --

So far away from where I am
And yet as near as my heart,
Enclosed with body sitting,
Fingers prancing, going
To the Moor, catching,
The Myths.

Thank you for sharing this enchanting poem.
Best
Wendy

The Last Flourish

Farewell the sun,
Farewell the last of summer;
Throw off in shades of flame
The fading robes, so reckless
Now that light has faded.
Gales will strip us stark as crones
For winter's sleep
But not before the final flourish
- gypsy dance -
Around our home, in memory
Of what will be again.

© Lee McAulay 2014, all rights reserved (but shared with gratitude)