Thu 13 Sep 2012
I am thinking of a picture of him I did not take, but wished I had. Its flashed through my minds eye in unexpected moments this week like a new copper penny flipped up into the sun.
We’re heading northwest on Creston Road. Warm and gorgeous, the late summer late afternoon light lays on him after its dance through the miles of sky and the near oaks and his truck’s windows. Lit up are his long blue jeaned legs stretched out on the seat, his tan hand relaxed on the wheel, his sharp white button down shirt, his bright and kind smile curving up to a dimple; all glowing as things do in this harvest time light. We’d dressed and headed for dinner, our first out together, and found a surprising nervousness and excitement in it - like teens headed to a dance, not sure exactly what to say, shy. I could not stop stealing glances and finally just looked long at him as he drove us further into the honeyed sun thinking: “how beautiful”, and “is this really my life right now?” and “lucky, lucky”.
Such a beautiful time of year, always. In all future ones I will remember this particular year’s late summer, and the sweet harvest being offered up for us.
What is your special harvest this year? Tell me. Do you have any poem stories that speak to this? Share them. Thank you.
Coming Home at Twilight in Late Summer We turned into the drive, and gravel flew up from the tireslike sparks from a fire. So much
to be done — the unpacking, the mail
and papers; the grass needed mowing …
We climbed stiffly out of the car.
The shut-off engine ticked as it cooled. And then we noticed the pear tree,
the limbs so heavy with fruit
they nearly touched the ground.
We went out to the meadow; our steps
made black holes in the grass:
and we each took a pear, and ate, and were grateful.
~ Jane Kenyon Excerpt from “A Late Summer Garden” …..
She would like time to stop now, the sky, blue as radium,
the hills, bolts of calico, red & yellow, gold & green. ~ Barbara Crooker
September 14th, 2012 at 3:14 am
i just literally stumbled onto this and was immediately struck by your first sentence and read on. it amazes me that you have described a sentiment of my own so perfectly..right down to “his sharp white button down shirt.” it seems odd, perhaps and meaningless, but the word serendipity comes to mind. and i have never felt before to comment on anything on the internet until just this minute. thank you!
September 19th, 2012 at 5:21 am
No poem, no stories, just sitting in the driver seat, also nervous, looking back at you. I’ll blame the nerves for walking the wrong direction and getting lost in a one street town trying to find a restaurant I’ve been to a dozen times. Figs with goat cheese wrapped in prosciutto, smoked. Warm sweet air, lavender, worn boots. Thank You
September 21st, 2012 at 5:25 am
Little Summer Poem Touching the Subject of Faith
Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun’s brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can’t hear
anything, I can’t see anything —
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,
nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,
the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker —
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.
And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing —
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,
the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet —
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.
And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt
swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?
One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn’s beautiful body
is sure to be there.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(West Wind)
September 21st, 2012 at 5:31 am
The Rapture
All summer
I wandered the fields
that were thickening
every morning,
every rainfall,
with weeds and blossoms,
with the long loops
of the shimmering, and the extravagant-
pale as flames they rose
and fell back,
replete and beautiful-
that was all there was-
and I too
once or twice, at least,
felt myself rising,
my boots
touching suddenly the tops of the weeds,
the blue and silky air-
listen,
passion did it,
called me forth,
addled me,
stripped me clean
then covered me with the cloth of happiness-
I think there is no other prize,
only rapture the gleaming,
rapture the illogical the weightless-
whether it be for the perfect shapeliness
of something you love-
like an old German song-
or of someone-
or the dark floss of the earth itself,
heavy and electric.
At the edge of sweet sanity open
such wild, blind wings.
~ Mary Oliver
September 22nd, 2012 at 6:06 am
Found this one tonight and wanted to add it to your thread of poems.
A Pot of Red Lentils
by Peter Pereira
simmers on the kitchen stove.
All afternoon dense kernels
surrender to the fertile
juices, their tender bellies
swelling with delight.
In the yard we plant
rhubarb, cauliflower, and artichokes,
cupping wet earth over tubers,
our labor the germ
of later sustenance and renewal.
Across the field the sound of a baby crying
as we carry in the last carrots,
whorls of butter lettuce,
a basket of red potatoes.
I want to remember us this way—
late September sun streaming through
the window, bread loaves and golden
bunches of grapes on the table,
spoonfuls of hot soup rising
to our lips, filling us
with what endures.
“A Pot of Red Lentils” by Peter Pereira, from Saying the World. © Copper Canyon Press, 2003.