Thursday, December 3, 2020

Late

I often walk past a long, stately row of thirty tall cottonwoods.  (Yes, once upon a time I counted them.)  They always seem to be the last to lose their leaves.  On a sunny, breezy afternoon, as the season begins to depart, the noble old-timers take on the look of young aspens. Their remaining yellow leaves — high up in swaying boughs — flicker, tremble, and shine in the blue sky, in the honey sunlight.  But now, as December begins, they are nearly empty, and the path beside them is littered in gold.

     Fallen leaves
Come flying from elsewhere:
     Autumn is ending.

Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902) (translated by R. H. Blyth), in R. H. Blyth, Haiku, Volume 3: Summer-Autumn (Hokuseido Press 1952), page 355.

Yet no "Alas!" is called for.  Unannounced and unexpected, gifts are always arriving "from elsewhere," be it autumn, winter, spring, or summer.  Nothing is to be regretted or mourned.  "Earth never grieves!"

Onto the rain porch
     from somewhere outside it comes —
a fallen petal.

Takahama Kyoshi (1874-1959) (translated by Steven Carter), in Steven Carter, Traditional Japanese Poetry: An Anthology (Stanford University Press 1991), page 443.

Edward Waite (1854-1924)
"The Mellow Year Is Hastening To Its Close" (1896)

As the solstice approaches, my afternoon walks have become twilight walks.  All is quiet and dark within the groves of pine trees, save for occasional twitters, or brief songs, from far off in the shadows.  Now and then a solitary crow flies overhead, sometimes silent, sometimes cawing.  The immemorial solitary crow of autumn.

     An autumn evening;
Without a cry,
     A crow passes.

Kishū (1743-1802) (translated by R. H. Blyth) in R. H. Blyth, Haiku, Volume 3: Summer-Autumn, page 345.

At some point in the season, one feels the melancholy pull of decline. The bittersweet wistfulness and wistful bittersweetness of early autumn and high autumn are long gone, irrecoverable.  Funereal but tempting, the late autumn emptiness and darkness beckon.

     Dirge in Woods

A wind sways the pines,
        And below
Not a breath of wild air;
Still as the mosses that glow
On the flooring and over the lines
Of the roots here and there.
The pine-tree drops its dead;
They are quiet, as under the sea.
Overhead, overhead
Rushes life in a race,
As the clouds the clouds chase;
        And we go,
And we drop like the fruits of the tree,
        Even we,
        Even so.

George Meredith,  A Reading of Earth (Macmillan 1888).

Edward Waite, "Autumn Colouring" (1894)

But there shall be no dirges as autumn fades.  As ever in the World of beautiful particulars, departures are followed by arrivals, there is no loss without an attendant gain.  One afternoon this week it seemed for a moment that the long tree shadows laid across the bright green grass of a meadow were the essence of loss and sorrow.  Until one saw the trunks and empty branches of the trees, which had suddenly turned gold in the angled sunlight -- each and every twig glittering, aflame.

               The Last Leaf

I saw how rows of white raindrops
   From bare boughs shone,
And how the storm had stript the leaves
   Forgetting none
Save one left high on a top twig
   Swinging alone;
Then that too bursting into song
   Fled and was gone.

Andrew Young, in Edward Lowbury and Alison Young (editors), The Poetical Works of Andrew Young (Secker & Warburg 1985).

Yes, gifts never cease to arrive from elsewhere.

     Leaning against the tree,
Branches and leaves are few:
     A night of stars.

Masaoka Shiki (translated by R. H. Blyth), in R. H. Blyth, Haiku, Volume 3: Summer-Autumn, page 365.

Edward Waite, "Fall of the Year"

10 comments:

Bruce said...

“At some point in the season, one feels the melancholy pull of decline. The bittersweet wistfulness and wistful bittersweetness of early autumn and high autumn are long gone, irrecoverable. Funereal but tempting, the late autumn emptiness and darkness beckon.”

Steve, The above is a beautiful piece of prose, lovely and, to me, evocative of more than I could tell.

John Ashton said...

The haiku in this post are wonderful Stephen. So evocative,lovely also to read Andrew Young.
I was walking in a local park a couple of days ago and marvelling at the trees and how, while some of the oak trees had lost most of their leaves, others still held theirs, which had turned a beautiful bright yellow and almost shimmered, quivering in the bright December sunlight.
In the streams running through the woods there were marvellous shoals of colour where leaves had fallen and were caught up under the banks or against the small cascades made by fallen logs. As you say every time of year has its gifts and there isn’t any reason to regret, rather we should celebrate each particular, not grieve, but savour what is here and be present to each individual moment and all that inhabits it. Changes and alteration are the joys we encounter each day and we never know when they will happen.

Spottydog said...

I comment very rarely but I want you to know how much joy your posts always bring me. Thank you for taking the time to write them - for your beautiful words and the wonderful poems - many which are new to me.

And a crow! They are the best.

Stephen Pentz said...

Bruce: That's very nice of you to say. Thank you. The range of emotions we go through each autumn is varied and deep, isn't it? Who knows which ones will hit closest home each year? Of course, I needn't tell you that: you know it well. There is emptiness and darkness. But I also think of the beautiful birch outside your window that you have often written about. All of a piece.

I greatly appreciate your kind words, and your long-time presence here. Thank you again.

Unknown said...

Hello Stephen.

I just wanted to thank you for sharing your blog. I came across it while looking to see what R S Thomas might have written about Christmas and found myself lost in a world of expression that I'd love to revisit.

Will be switching to your archive when this dreadful pandemic next gives me the urge to 'check the news'. Thank you!

Jo

John Maruskin said...

What a wonderful post. It's been resonating with me since Thursday, still rings. That morning, deep overcast, I was out walking with my dog in dawn light, and I saw six starlings fly away from their roosts in walnut trees.

Autumn dawn breaking;
from bare top branches of
tall old walnut trees
six starlings flap away,
last scraps of night.


"One afternoon this week it seemed for a moment that the long tree shadows laid across the bright green grass of a meadow were the essence of loss and sorrow. Until one saw the trunks and empty branches of the trees, which had suddenly turned gold in the angled sunlight -- each and every twig glittering, aflame."

Yes, indeed. A great pleasure.

This post reminds me of a motto I've taken from one of Frank O'Hara's poems:

the light seems to be eternal
and joy seems to be inexorable
I am always enough always to find it in wind


Thanks again. Happy trails, JM

Stephen Pentz said...

John: I'm pleased you liked the haiku. Thank you. I'm sure you're familiar with "The Last Leaf." I always think of it when only a few persistent leaves remain. It complements nicely your fine closing sentence: "Changes and alteration are the joys we encounter each day and we never know when they will happen."

Your lovely description of your walk in the park also embodies the thought you express. As you and I have discussed over the years, part of the allure of walks is that, to paraphrase your thought, we "never know" what "joys" we will encounter. One doesn't need to seek them out: they will arrive.

Since we are already in December, I will take this opportunity to wish you and your loved ones a wonderful holiday season. I wish you well in the coming year. Let's hope for a better one.

Stephen Pentz said...

Spottydog: It's a pleasure to hear from you again. I'm delighted to know you are still visiting after all these years. Thank you very much for your kind words about the blog. And thank you as well for your long-term presence here, which I greatly appreciate. Take care.

(And, yes, crows are indeed wonderful, aren't they? The solitary crow of autumn may seem melancholy in some ways, but it is a welcome companion.)

Stephen Pentz said...

Jo: Thank you very much for your kind words. I'm happy you found your way here.

R. S. Thomas wrote many wonderful poems about Christmas, didn't he? In his own inimitable way. The ones that have appeared here are only a sample.

As for "the urge to 'check the news'," I've long done my best to keep "the news" out of my life, and this year has only confirmed my commitment to that course of action. To quote the title of a poem by Mary Coleridge that has appeared here on occasion: "No Newspapers." (Or television news, internet news, Twitter, etc., etc.)

Thank you again. I hope you will return.

Stephen Pentz said...

Mr. Maruskin: Thank you very much for your kind words about the post, and for sharing your thoughts, including your lovely poem. The starlings as the "last scraps of night" is a beautiful image. I noticed the back and forth between light and dark in your comment, beginning with the dawn light and the starlings and concluding with O'Hara's "the light seems to be eternal." Glittering twigs and black crows. Such is the World.

As ever, it is a pleasure to hear from you. Thank you for stopping by. I hope you enjoy these last days of autumn.