Helen Hunt Jackson, ‘September’. Jackson (1830-85) was an exact contemporary of Emily Dickinson – she was born the same year and died just one year before her more famous fellow American poet – but she’s far less well-known. As well as being a poet, Jackson was also a novelist as well as an activist who campaigned on behalf of Native Americans. Her Calendar of Sonnets offered a sonnet for every month of the year, accompanied by related illustrations. In ‘September’, however, Jackson writes not a sonnet but a poem of quatrains, in which she muses upon ‘the secret / Which makes September fair.’
William Wordsworth, ‘September, 1819’. ‘Departing summer hath assumed / An aspect tenderly illumed, / The gentlest look of spring; / That calls from yonder leafy shade / Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, / A timely carolling.’ So begins this Romantic meditation on the arrival of autumn, in which Wordsworth detects an echo of spring in the mellowing nature of everything.
And they hae taen his very heart’s blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song
But I miss you most of all my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall.”
– Autumn Leaves, Lyrics by Johnny Mercer and Jacques Prйvert.
After questioning me, the nurse gave the doctor a phone. I heard her say it was a video of me when I was found on the street unconscious. Because of my big ears, I heard their conversations aloud. I rise up and took the phone on the doctor’s hand. “Sir no – ” the doctor shockingly said when I grabbed the phone. What kind of joke are they doing? I look closely to the video. I found myself there lying and crying. I was lying there as if someone is beating me. “It was you sir.” Said the nurse. I’m still in process when I watched the clip. Is this really me? I swear John is beating me that time. Where is he? Why isn’t he there? I think this video is manipulated. They cut john out to this video just to make fun of me. “Sir, if you really wanted overcome your fears, you should cooperate with us and have a session with a psychiatrist.” The doctor says. “September is only your creation sir. Maybe your past is something you couldn’t forget. Or maybe sir it was in your genes. But we can solve them.” He added.
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
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Originally printed in Poems (Roberts Brothers, 1892).
This poem is in the public domain.
This far north, the harvest happens late.
Rooks go clattering over the sycamores
whose shadows yawn after them, down to the river.
Uncut wheat staggers under its own weight.
published in Painted, spoken, 22