Th'Autumnal Sequence by Malama Music

by Harvey Hess

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Th'Autumnal Sequence Sonnets of the Fall

a sonnet sequence by Harvey Hess

computer graphics by John Paul Thomas

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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the trustees of the Harvey Hess estate. For further information contact Rod Library Special Collections, University of Northern Iowa, Cedar Falls, Iowa.

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~9~ TH' AUTUMNAL SEQUENCE: SONNETS OF THE FALL I INSCRIPTION FOR A WINE VESSEL for D.M.

All contradictions say -- "O silly man, Your eye and word and life and heart are broken Your feelings should be silk, but they are oaken-Your spring was gone as soon as it began." But oh, what gorgeous ruins now japan The waning world! If ever truth was spoken-And it was--we still have some truthful token Here of the grander artifact's brief span.

The wrong is not so bad as right is good. And though the night-time hide the Oak-groves' gold And red, yet color hangs upon the bough. Even moonlight, cool upon the wood, Reveals flamboyant colors, which the cold Itself sustains, which none dare disavow.

~ 10 ~ II for A.F. & A.F.

October is the sunset of the year, The time of cinnabar and cinnamon When noble stags are turned to venison And light ferments to colors preachers fear. Degenerate and injured light is dear; The vintage colors of the sinking sun--That harbor reverie, oblivion-Are far more potent than when noon is sheer.

The windfall of the sun is fallen now, And bruised and dulcet lucence, overripe Horizons, weigh upon the waning world. Insanities of dying lights endow Their golden shades to earth and haunt and stripe The earth as Pan has his beard oiled and curled.

~ 11 ~ III for N.S.

I don't mind perplexity--I sing And drink, despond, desire, decay and pray And find myself in autumn's varied way, Ripening like arts of Ming and Ch'ing. Simplicity! There isn't such a thing Unless you formalize and cut away Conflicting objects from your view and play That what is gone was hardly anything.

The gnats are bathing in the smoke; and plums Are trimmed with purple dust and azure mold; And cider apples are improved by worms. As long as wine can heighten me and numbs The pain of being not so "good as gold", I shall stay in autumn's drunken forms.

~ 12 ~ IV TOWARD DUSK

Dust and smoke and dew and autumn flowers, Cider-mills and civet smells combine Bouquets like brandy taken after wine To permeate these full-blown falling hours. The stars emit perfume that overpowers The sunset-scented land where anodyne And drugs smoldered in an ornate design Of incense under fruitful, half-lit bowers.

Gentle Rose, pungent Chrysanthemum Arouse an infinite regret and joy About the redolent and fading garden. The whirling world is drunk but not yet numb. Narcotic flavors soften to a toy Only when the senses freeze and harden.

~ 13 ~ V DUSK for J.T.

Dusk, grown enharmonic with muted pain In one star sharp and muffled chords of smoke, With nocturnes few men's voices still invoke, Dusk is falling like the sound of rain. Contrary motions of the heart and brain Are sounding in the russet Ash and Oak; The beaten pulse of fall and hearts that broke Measure out a low, atonal strain.

In poignant music, subtle agony Of dusk, the sundered stuff of man combines Again, a melancholy miracle. Above chromatic moonrise Goose-flocks flee. By looted fields the pining Locust whines. The loneliness of us is lyrical.

~ 14 ~ VI SMOKE for B.R.

And now the lavish leavings of the trees Are lit with living flame and dirge the air To desiccated mists whose fumes ensnare The rays of sunset in vagrant elegies. Smoke, perfume of fire, epitomes Of shining deaths, apotheoses where The dancing flames and flaming leaves impair The limpid air with dusky secrecies--

Smoke conforms to Autumn's unity Of metamorphoses and dissipation-The smoke has all but veiled the setting sun. The only sharp detail that I can see Is that of my autumnal situation: The smoke and I could surely be as one.

~ 15 ~ VII for E.V.

There must be some friend when you bid the thing You love "goodbye," some special, able friend To help when love or beauty seems to end, Or ends indeed when Death has plied His sting. A riper, mellow love, perhaps, can bring Relief from ecstasy and stay to tend To smaller things than anguish, who may lend You company when stars are opening.

Chrysanthemums, perhaps, or birds, or wine Or work, or song, the affability Of habit, or the world may ease your pain. But when a memory has struck your spine To shivers, what, but pure humanity-Alas--can mortify a mortal's bane?

~ 16 ~ VIII Dawn for E.H.

One more dawn may gild the Goldenrod Coax the morning-glory's memento mori, Open and loose again the Dove's love-story-One more dawn may warm the fruitful sod. One more dawn may glow where love has trod, One more dawn may yet delay the hoary End and exhort with golden oratory-One more dawn may agitate and prod.

When burning-stingered bees are on the bloom And time is very nearly history, Enjoy the bloom before the bloom is gone. Before the wine be vinegar and gloom Extinguish bright decay, the mystery May open, Autumn offers one more dawn.

~ 17 ~ IX Gold for M.M.

And if you look for gold, ignore the peak Of heaven where the air is thin and blue Or black or blank with clouds--I fear it's true That gold belongs to earth, earth low and meek. Or if it's something wealthier you seek Then mine the dusk's horizon, half with you Of earth and half of Heaven--coins accrue Heavy as sunset where light lands oblique.

But either one or both or neither/nor The sky and earth can satisfy most lust, Most vulgar, jargon-cheapened quests for gold. This golden rule adorns Bold Autumn's door-An apple in a kiss, a prayer of dust Must have to satisfy the truly bold.

~ 18 ~ X The Cornucopia for R.S.

And so declines the zenith's season, now To gold and red, as clearer lights grow old-Corn is copious as Midas' gold And apples glow along the cracking bough. (On prudent souls, vulgar worry's plough Is digging ugliness and seeds of cold Are hoarded, stored in chilly cellars.) Hold Aloof, you richer souls, you have enow!

Winter's penury of black and white Cannot impoverish the wealthy hues Of bloom and fruit as factual as you. The bloom decayed to fruit; the day to night Is flying. Here, however, is the news-They grew more wealthy as they downward flew.

~ 19 ~ XI The Spider Web for J.C.

Geometry and silk, circumlocution Of deadly beauty in th' autumnal bloom, And random leaves are woven in the loom-Fall re-enacts Arachne's execution. The web exacts a lyric retribution; The silenced Katydid is in a tomb As elegant as can be had--her doom Is part of grave Athena's prosecution.

Between the Asters golden spiders ply Their arts of tapestry and poison. DayLight, trapped in dew-drops, dangles from the net. For since even the singer has to die, And Spiders slay in such an artful way, The Spider's fang is just as any yet.

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~ 23 ~ XII Maples for L.S. and W.S.

Go to groves of maples--go and see Alloys of Glory's lucred blood, go And look in Color's mirrors, all aglow With sunful wastes of Light's debauchery. The turning of the trees appears to me The truest part of all terrestrial show; So go to maple groves, look and know That we are like to them, ah, verily!

Once, at least, an alloy of our heart And most embarrassed need amalgamates Us all with blush that's hard to penetrate. O mortal love, of molten dust and art Contrived, when splendor's zenith dissipates Some glory stays--recall the maple's state.

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XIII The Picnic

Decay indicates dearest life of all. The sunset sheds livelier light than noon. When dust and webs thicken the air, the moon Dissolves and candies like a Pear's windfall. When love or beauty ripens to its fall, And what is past is given names, maroon Yourself with what remains some afternoon And have a picnic on some mapled mall.

It's no picnic. But make a picnic of It anyway. Sauternes and pears, nocturnes And lullabies and comforters of satin-Spread decadent and earnest pleasure, love And verse and tears and tournedos and urns Of blossoms there that memory may fatten.

~ 25 ~ XIV Wine

Extenuated grapes, their juice construed To wine, the Nine Muses' blood, can construe The very old into the nearly new, Construe a fact to truth most rarely viewed. Prometheus, thank Heaven, was no prude, And stole when stealing was the thing to do; And if, my friend, you freeze, then so must you Steal at least the Bacchic magnitude.

Eros' economy of ruby, gold, And rose, the massive values life demands, The fossil fuel of blood is in the grape. Be not deceived--the flaming vision's sold And stolen, fed on Eden's contrabands, And consummate in necessary rape.

~ 26 ~ XV Of the Value in the Mood

There is no relationship like a mood. The truth of mortal love, I fear, is this! We wait for spiders to sing and we miss The flesh of song in such solicitude. Our true love is a broken thing we glued Together. "Was" and "is--" each plays abyss Unto the other. Only narcosis Requites our ghastly lusts for pulchritude.

But when a kiss is given in the gold And florid sunset, when the blossoms of Despair explode the sky, the stage is set For real acting. The mood's the thing when cold And broken is the proper form of love. Inverted values are the best most get.

~ 27 ~ XVI Colors for V.W.

Autumnal tones are wines compressed from light, Chromatic lyres whose strings are smoking wicks And spider webs; color has acoustics When autumn moods vibrate twixt dark and bright. Real things are rarely black or white. Nor are they gray. Things are shown all amix With myriads of colors--timbred tricks Like Maples lightened by approaching night.

Nocturnal modes exist beneath the noon Of Autumn, while beneath the moon aubades Of rosy circumstance beguile stiff reason. In autumn leaves are colors plus a tune Percussive breezes play; and only gods And clods are unaffected in this season.

~ 28 ~ XVII Willows for D.H.

Along the river silver, yellow, green And speckled willows sprinkle leaves that flutter Into reflected foliage and ButterFlies, creating something of a scene. Like shattered petals pointed leaves careen Through gilding sun, engulfing shades and clutter Of lower leafy limbs into an utter Confusion such as I had never seen.

As many Birds as Butterflies and leaves Are on or off the trees exaggerate The sense of flight and fall with fervent song. From time to time the river-breeze receives A sheaf of leaves of gold and silver plate-My heart reflects confusions just as strong.

~ 29 ~ XVIII Panegyrick to the Creation for G.S.

O Universe, by seven days created, E'en now created, remnants of the good Are in you still--if anything has stood The test of time, you have, O underrated Miracle; among us the golden-plated Fruit ripens in fall, and yet the food Is edible that Adam loved which, could He eat again, would still make him elated.

The fall, for all its tarnish frost, is golden-The pain that banished green exchanges green For many lovely metamorphoses. O mighty work of God, to Him beholden Endlessly, why could I not have seen You sea-born, fresh, ere came this killing freeze?

~ 30 ~ XIX Bittersweet for T.P.

The children pick the Bittersweet and take Bouquets of burning beads to withered, gray And fading ladies--all the grannies say, "Why, these are just a dream--for mercy's sake!" Ah Bittersweet, ah bittersweet, opaque Simple as near-ripe persimmons--today Your orange jewelry has helped to pay For windows little-leaguers helped to break.

It seems to me the amber berries form An image of our brilliant negation, The poison loneliness of mortal love. For mercy's sake! Flamboyant, gorgeous norm! It isn't just a dream, this desolation That shows in flames that neither burn nor move!

~ 31 ~ XX Disguise for K.H.

Autumn is come--prepare to compromise Your sanity, enjoy the artifice Of ordered song, the ruined edifice Of love, the glory of corrupting skies. Learn to savor Autumn's truthful lies. If truly you love kisses, buy a kiss. Any gold can spin a chrysalis If you will have your glory in disguise.

The Lotus leaves are eaten down to lace. The lily-pads have aged to tortoise-shell. The bloom of May is baked into a pie. If you abhor conventional disgrace, Believing pleasure is a bagatelle, Continue bland to death--I don't care why.

~ 32 ~ XXI Another Picnic-with Lotus Seeds for J.S.

Our world is growing briefer every day And more compact--all the same, please act As if our life were not so jam-cram-packed And take your time and wade out in the bay. Go out a ways where Wild-Lotus pods sway, Where the Damsel-flies' skimming wings refract The sun--get Lotus pods-I will extract The seeds--but enjoy the mud on your way.

I shall pull the seeds from the balmy pith. I'll peel and roast them--bitter, sweet and bland-Then gently tincture them with ginger's powers. Then we shall eat those pearls together with The taste of that which is, what should be and What might be, dipped in honey made from flowers.

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~ 37 ~ XXII This Leaf for D.G.B.

This leaf achieved the status of a flower. Green was not enough to satisfy The way of Earth or Heaven. When you die, Be sweet or sour or something sweet and sour. Neither life nor death is bland. The power Of metamorphosis can turn a sigh To life or death or love. I don't know why. I don't know how. But now is glory's hour.

This leaf is lacking only fragrance. Burn It. Fragrance will ensue. The tangent change Of green to red to smoke need not concern you. This is the thing that counts; somehow turn; Continue even in the new and strange. Nothing fiercer than love is there to burn you.

~ 38 ~ XXIII Sauternes

Sauternes--of every wine the very first-Is glowing in the glass, dessert for loves Deserving honey's soul, the soul of doves, (Silenus' soul,) of that upon which Bacchus nursed. The sun strikes the water after first Passing through the Birch and Maple groves And flickers crystal on these grassy coves Where, stained with Midas light, we slake our thirst.

The golden foil, the sound of cork and glass, The voice of fully bodied wine, the touch Of afternoon on moistened plums and pears-The noble rot, shrunken honey, alas, Are all too quickly spent. But, oh, how much These are compared with winter's canny wares!

~ 39 ~ XXIV By A Still Cove for J.L.

The Water-cress has gone to seed. It spreads Among the graceful tangles of the grass. The water, nacre-like, like antique glass, Is broken by the beaten Lotus beds. Popping Grasshoppers with their cone-shaped heads, Their fine antennae, wings of lace and brass, And Katydids and Crickets, sing and pass From sight among the shed of grassy threads.

Dragonflies and frogs are catching wisps Of gnats above the little fogs that now Begin like smoke along the fragrant river. What things the summer sun had burnt to crisps Are salved with song and dew. The cool winds sough. Beyond the cove, the moon begins to shiver.

~ 40 ~ XXV The Fall for R.A.L.

The fall appeals to me with lyric force-I love the dwindling song Cicadas sing, I love the frosty Asters fresh as spring, I love the Maples' blushing intercourse With purple dusk and smoke, I love the hoarse And tinkling south-bound birds, I love the clingIng Wild Grape vine, the apples ripening, And wine, the Muses' blood I love, of course!

If other autumns speak to your condition, Let them talk; I prefer the artifact Of ancient chants, of bloom and fruit and bees. I love traditional decomposition, I love to see and hear bon-fires redact The limpid air with dusky secrecies.

~ 41 ~ XXVI Neither More Nor Less for R.A.L.

Our life is like a grove of flame-like trees Reflected in a lake, or like a husk Of corn that crackles in the golden dusk, Or like a leaf-embellished, smoky breeze. Our life is not a great deal more than these, Not more than visions, foam, music and musk Emergency may rarely change to brusque Raging--that always fades to sweet disease.

The futile beauty of the brave is this, The setting sun that glares with sanguine anger, Or dying Maples, glorious with rage. Who says our life is mighty speaks amiss. Our grandeur is we need not faint in languor Nor must we pallidly submit to age.

~ 42 ~ XXVII Sumacs for P.D.

These are the reddest of them all; they blaze In ashen meadows where the Goldenrods Sow silver stars of seed and Milkweed pods Release their constellations in the haze. I wonder, even in those brighter days, Even in the age of the strong, swift gods, Before the time of mortal Homer's nods, Did rouged Aurora finger redder rays?

The sumacs dimmed but little if they dimmed At all through all the faded ages--yes, Apollo's lips were no more red than these! O great, blind bard who hymned superbly limbed, Imperishable gods, you could not guess What color means when color must soon freeze.

~ 43 ~ XXVIII Narcosis for Dr. D.M.

However marvelous the world may be, Losing autumn twilight turns to prurient pain, Evokes the mood of smoke or steamy rain, And insects sweetly trill "mortality!" However bad they be, th' efficacy Of certain sinful anodynes contain The sweet insanity of feeling sane, The means of numbing mortal calumny.

However, guilt enhances pleasure. Trembling Doubly when you're done with stealing love Upon the fallen Maple leaves is sweet. In none of what I say am I dissembling-Narcotic pleasures never may remove The sting of death, nor are they right or meet.

~ 44 ~ XXIX The Insect's Music for D.M.

Among the fugal grasses episodes Of music, enharmonic with the blue Tonality of dusk, have pierced through you, Have pierced through me, have pierced through autumn's roads And autumn's travelers with ancient modes From diverse Singers drunk on dusk and dew, Though Souls who hear the timely song are few, The song as regular as Pindar's Odes.

The song flies up from wings which yet may bear The singer's mortal freight into the sky-But not beyond the sky to deathlessness. Thank God that even silent souls may hear The song, and wingless singers, too, may fly On vocal wings above the deaf'ning press.

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~ 49 ~ XXX The Moon--For Endymion

The sunset still was casting gold upon The red brocade of Maples when the moon Began to gild the last of afternoon, When Earth was still as you, Endymion. October Moon! The very paragon Of fullest affluence, the highest noon Of night--she rose in gold the sun had strewn And added gold that is in no wise wan.

The harvest moonlight fell through Maple leaves, The moon upon the cove became a coin; The moon upon your skin was wealth itself. Endymion, your lonely ending grieves Me--all the same, no mortal heart or loin Or eye or lip knew mints of purer pelf.

~ 50 ~ XXXI Advice for M.B.

I think that when the harvest moon is up, It is a pity to be left alone-Your world will dwindle soon to ash and bone And soon the wine is emptied from the cup. When Maples ripen with the moon, then sup With friend or lover--life is all a loan And so is love--if pride has overthrown Your lovely world, then help it with makeup.

Forgive forever for a thousand reasons, But forgive! Wash your resolutions Down with wine; eat your words; but live! I do not know how many thousand seasons Man has starved on bottled-up solutions; Clear the way and seize the night--forgive!

~ 51 ~ XXXII Fruit Markets for D.S.D.

Persimmons, Paw-Paws, Apples, Pumpkins, Plums, Peaches, Pears and Nuts, Grapes and Corn, The orchard glowing in the hazy morning, harvest heaped in pandemoniums Of gold and purple nearly overcomes Imagination--these are fruit-stands, worn And weathered treasure chests, almost forlorn, But wealthy--these are fall's emporiums.

The chilly fruit is sweating in the warmer Morning. Shoppers sample this and that With frank fingerings voluptuous. This fall it is as it has been with former Falls--the fruit is fragrant, firm and fat, The buyersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; looks are almost amorous.

~ 52 ~ XXXIII Bees and Honey for C.S.

Nuggets of fuzzy fire and buzzing flight Glean their sweeter kin in fields of flame And move in nectared vectors in a game Too hard even for even mankindâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s erudite. Confused bees of avid appetite Resort to many blooms; but much the same Result is gained as when old Euclid's aim Was truth--a sticky kind of stickling light.

A sticky kind of light and winter's ware In waxy proofs hexagonal--O Lord-The golden, mead-mad Bees are mysteries. Honey is an artificial fare. But sweetness must be had where it is stored. So if you want some honey, look for Bees.

~ 53 ~ XXXIV The Wreath for D.M.

With what care I wove mauve leaves into red, And Yew, with ruby berries, into gold And silver Birch-wands and Willows--of old Such things were done--the art is not yet dead. The plumes that fluttered from the Aspen's head Have clasps of fragrant blossoms which the cold Wind has not blasted--to find them I strolled For hours with scolding Jays about my head.

This wreath was excellently worked and made From autumn's best materials--now place Upon your head this witness of the heart. This poignant toy, of course, must wilt, must fade. But memory annoys the human race And rightly magnifies e'en tiny art.

~ 54 ~ XXXV The Light for C.D.

Indeed it is becoming colder here. But is it sterile? Is it dead? No! The light we have is just a petty glow-The light we have is something less than clear. So what? The light we have should be more dear To us for having less of it. We go Extremely now with dearer things to show Than when we felt a brighter kind of fear.

In place of searing rays and lucid light And hardly any shadows, we have tones And tints too colorful to bear things like names. Now light is honey, now the sight Of stubbled fields is turned to golden bones And colors turn to shadows, stars or flames.

~ 55 ~ XXXVI Jack Frost for H.H., Sr. and H.H., Jr.

When I was four or five my father told Me, "Jack Frost comes when you are fast asleep And paints the trees--" even now I can't keep This thought out of my head, this puerile, old Myth. Jack Frost is more to me than the cold. Dissecting myths is an awfully cheap Game. And I do not believe a mere leap Of faith perfects Jack's patterned red and gold.

The immanence of vivid things is quite Enough for me. An imperfection does Not hide the glory of the greater part. What has Jack Frost to do with black and white? Color is his dimension. Never was Color happy far from vivacious art.

~ 56 ~ XXXVII More Advice for S.B.

The gravity of agate, ruby light Is not as great as that of stone and brick; Wine or tears are neither one so thick As blood--but neither light nor wine is slight. Forever-dying life lives on despite Absurd and sober death; but life is sick, Earnest, and real, something far too quick For diagnostic dickering and fight.

Requite the loves you have, requite the loves You need, requite the loves you love--don't wait, For love is infinite and you are not. Elaborate deliberation moves Too slowly. Take the faint, the slight, the great; Accept them--what you take, that is your lot.

~ 57 ~ XXXVIII In the Desecrated, Abandoned Chapel for W.G.

On this dark altar, countless times, the wine Was elevated. Here the candles made Of bees-wax glowed like honey. Here arrayed In black, priests intoned eleisions nine. But now the vestments are ruby woodbine. Now the paintings peel and flake and fade. St George's picture is almost decayed; In place of coiled Dragon there is a vine.

Among the shattered glass the sunset stains The vacant spots with sanguine chaos. Now Only dust is donned in the naked vestry. The shutters clatter on the scattered panes. The holy hymns are mute. But from the bough The wind bears in another red mystery.

~ 58 ~ XXXIX Indian Summer I for G.M.

Many leaves are fallen. Light descends More readily through brighter boughs--the ground Is warm as gold appears to be. The sound Of insects hints of song that never ends. The fruit sky-high, the Wild-Grape vine extends Butterfly-wing leaves on the trees. Around The dripping bunches Bumble-bees expound (But briefly winged) on vintage nectared blends.

Deer run noisily on crackling leaves, Releasing scented dust. The river makes Its bed with variegated foliage. And now and then a gauzy cloud-band weaves The flow of light to filmy shade and shakes A welcome coolness upon flambent umbrage.

~ 59 ~ XL Indian Summer II

I, being slightly more than tipsy, fell Asleep on Maple leaves beside the spring. Now the sun is low and everything This ripe light strikes is potent as Mosel. The spring exuberates in Muscatel, Glibly blabbing what the birds and bees sing About. My eyes and ears can hardly bring Themselves to understanding--what the hell!

I wake from dreaming to another dream, Another flushed euphoria, and brush Away the leaves that fell upon my chest. The one I love will be here soon. A ream Of leaves spin in a reeling breeze. The lush Summer is gone. This lushesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; season's best.

~ 60 ~ XLI The Tryst for C.C.

One year ago, when Oaks, especially, Were glorious, you came to me and gave Yourself away. So now the Oak leaves pave The paths again, but not so vividly. How warm you were when light was lividly Surrendering to clouds. And how I crave Your warmth again amidst this raw and grave Sunset--I crave you just as fleshily.

One year ago the frosty dusk became The reddest, ripest, hottest part of day, Those times you came, September through December. Beneath each sable cloud reflected flame Remains--the flame of you torched far away-But I--my lips, my skin, my arms--remember.

~ 61 ~ XLII Wild Geese

Eros shoots his arrows in the night. Among the insects' wails the Wild Geese cry And rend the haze-veiled moon-time as they fly-A pointed poignance loosed in well-aimed flight. The sound, alone, contains a fatal bite. Th' erotic darts themselves go flying by And pass over our heads and hearts--we die, But not of love that strikes at heaven's height.

The call of Geese communicates a breath Of what it is to feel heroic fear, A fiercer love, a fatal kind of joy. It must suffice to hear and guess the death That comes of mythic, epic love--we hear; We dream of Ithaca, but die at Troy.

~ 62 ~ XLIII Roast Duck for J.H. and T.L.

If Wild Fowl hint at immortality, Well, I can take a hint. I shouldn't boast, But it's nothing short of truth that my roast Duck is something nearly heavenly. I marinate them in a heavily Gingered orange sauce, almost As sweet as honey, cover them with toastEd orange peel and roast them very slowly.

Then when the fat is mostly out I stuff Them plump with pickled apples, turn Them on a hotter fire and baste with honey. I serve them up with dry Champagne--enough To make a frigid soul and palate burn. And they are neither unctuous, fat, or runny.

~ 63 ~ XLIV When You Are Drunk for L.W.

When you are drunk beneath the Maple Trees And look through leaves to see the sun (the air, Is clear, but hazy, too) with here and there Some swirling Milkweed seeds a recent freeze Released in front of calmer harmonies, In front of distant Elm-wood's branches where, From time to time, their falling leaves impair Your vistas (as the lazy breeze decrees.)

And smoke, almost as blue as sky, and triple Heat of wine and blood and sun combine To easy drowsiness with all the fuss Of flocking birds for song--and then you tipple Some more, passing around a stronger wine: My friends, can earth offer much more to us?

~ 64 ~ XLV Blackbirds, Robins for L.H.

Imagination learned to fly in fall. Whereas in spring she learned to sing and court And nest, the cold is come and spoils her sport; All birds are flying south--or almost all. The urgent, argent, tarnish-throated, brawl-Ing a raucous, sparkling flocks, ruby, swart And gnatty flocks, incant a sweet retort Against the fall and make the winds sound small.

Turn back you wanton flyers, Oh, turn back-But off they go on palpitating wings; Like smoke they rise above the flaming trees. The Robin Redbreasts and the shiny BlackBirds fly away--but other wingĂŠd things, Memories, will sing in th' approaching freeze.

~ 65 ~ XLVI Apology for Dr. D.B.

The gospel of the grape, I know, is not Enough to satisfy our ill-bred need. And poetry is something few souls read, Let alone sing, though all songs can be hot! When even Heaven wanes to rust and rot And earth turns cold, and flowers turn to seed, And what was proud is now a bruised reed, Enhance your lot with all the warmth you've got.

Indian summer is new wine for spring. Its mood is not the same as spring--yet The fall retains some really vernal stuff. And since I hate death's freezing sting, I cling To warming wine--but not without regret; The gospel of the grape is not enough.

~ 66 ~ XLVII November

November is the dusk of fall, the time Of Maples (propping pillars) plinthed on gold, Of harvest and starvation, sudden cold And subtler colors veiled with webs of rime. The lonely modes, the muted musics climb From solo crickets in the russet mold Of ruined meadows where sunsets grow old Quick, Dawns, though, sung out as Danteâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s purple Prime.

The grass, in tangled agony, with blood Of dew, expires porphyry-dark o' th' ground While Venus rises, partly. in the sky. Nothing made, sung, fed or loved speaks the mood Of finite creatures who, at last, have found, That evâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;n their infinite hungers must die.

~ 67 ~ XLVIII Even in November for R.A.

Sometimes the very, very clever fall In love with death. For very soon we must Be dead. Even in November, this dust That's me, however, loves death not at all. It must be said that much of life is gall. For all our hunger we receive a crust, A half a loaf. Even two crumbs, I trust, Are still better than none, whateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;er befall.

But in the end Death must outwit you, Man. And if one live a life that honors Death, Death has outwitted you in Death and life. I have outsmarted myself in this span Of faulty days. But when the thread of breath Is cut, the Fates will see--I'll dull their knife!

~ 68 ~ XLIX The Smell of Love for M.W., D.M. and C.C.

The smell of love, the smell of memories Of love, is still how candles smell, beeswax Candles, suddenly extinguished--it blacks Out all but Moonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s familiarities. The wicks glow a little. Then they ease From sight into the aphrodisiacs Of fiercely scented night. Who can relax When death is sighing in the autumn breeze?

I blew out the candles. The wind is blowing Out the bon-fires and trees. The crickets crawl Inside to sing. Love must do as it can. These petty flames die out, but in their going Leave the flavor of the flame--it's small, Indeed; but still it can inflame you, manâ&#x20AC;Ś

~ 69 ~ L November Dawn

Cicadas', Katydids' and Crickets' din Diminishes with each succeeding day. The dawn is welcomed with their slender lay, And fitly so--the dawn itself is thin. In frosty thickets still the spiders spin Their silver death; but all that flies their way, Their only catch, is dawn's diminished ray, Through which birds flee to southern origin.

Again, again, and yet again the pain Immemorial comes in some such guise, The pain of watching life fly out of sight. Attendant song! That greets this dark, insane And lonely dawn, be in my throat ere flies Away my breath, for breath, too, is in flight!

~ 70 ~ LI Pheasant Season for R.H.

When I was little, I would run and hide In pheasant season so I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hear The guns; and I did this year after year, Running to the closet where I cried Because of all the pretty cocks that died And fell like maple leaves. But now, I fear, The way I felt for them is not so clear As when I wept because of avicide.

Although I doubt that I will ever kill The birds myself, I have no qualms when other Men do the shooting for me now and then. Now, in fact, I can hardly wait until I can roast some birds. This is a new bother To me when pheasant season comes again.

~ 71 ~ LII Amor Vincit for G.R.H.

Extend your arms, O memories of love, And hold me close again against the breast Of ardent musicâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gladdest source, the guest That parted with the homing of the dove. I do not know what I was thinking of When I ignored the things I love the best, Which now are like the world the wind undressed, Sober as a stone-broke, moaning grove.

The golden values of the earth are all But spent, with hardly any left to steal, With rosy Eros impotent with sleep. Its mood like heaped-up secrets kept, the fall Has only memory with which to heal Erotic wounds; nor is the healing cheap.

~ 72 ~ LIII EPILOGUE: PHOENIX

The pheasant phosphores sunset on his breast Which glows, as warm as wine, with him through snows With which December closes fall; dawn’s rose Is also his, which no snows can molest. Though snow (star’s ashes) makes the pheasant’s nest, He rises before Heaven’s asters close And goes, golden, to glean the cornfields’ rows And greet the dawn, his equal and his guest.

Now, braving cold horizons, wizened SunShine lights the oval-shadowed, drifted snow, Sweet autumn’s crystal, meteorite ashes. Suddenly, louder than any shot-gun, Wings exploding, clanking metallic crow, The ringing pheasant dawns above his clashes!

~ 73 ~

~ 74 ~