A short breath in the bardo

Hello friends,

I love the word “fall”. I love the sound of the word “autumn”, that warm “n” humming at the end of the word for a moment, no love lost there – but I enjoy the visual story “fall” gives us. The early Latin etymology of “autumn” is unstable, but it was used in Chaucer works in the 1300s, and then dropped in English writing between 1500-1600 in favour of “fall”, and then the Brits switch back to “autumn” somewhere just before the start of the 18th century. The earliest known words in English for this time of year are usually terms that refer to harvest time or simply the passing of time. Isn’t it interesting that Autumn is the time of year when we notice the time passing?

The bardo between summer and winter is precious. The flame of summer burns up into hot red, orange and gold. I always think of Jordan in Gatsby saying: “life starts over when it gets crisp in the fall”.

I know it is a busy time – for me too. So even more important in that case, to stretch out time with poetry, to arrive fully in the volta.

So this month: three poems, that’s all. Let them swirl around you like brandy in a glass, warm you from the inside, and fuzz at the end of your senses.

One Girl
By Sappho (Originally 5 BCE)
Translated By Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1870)

I
Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough,
Atop on the topmost twig, — which the pluckers forgot, somehow, —
Forget it not, nay; but got it not, for none could get it till now.

II
Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is found,
Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear and wound,
Until the purple blossom is trodden in the ground.

*Running Away with the Hairdresser* *by Kevin Sinnott*

The Months [excerpt]
By Linda Pastan (1999)

September

Their summer romance
over, the lovers
still cling
to each other

the way the green
leaves cling
to their trees
in the strange heat

of September, as if
this time
there will be
no autumn.

The Basket of Apples by Paul Cezanne

I Never Wanted to Die
Dorianne Laux (2021)

It’s the best part of the day, morning light sliding
down rooftops, treetops, the birds pulling themselves
up out of whatever stupor darkened their wings,
night still in their throats.

I never wanted to die. Even when those I loved
died around me, away from me, beyond me.
My life was never in question, if for no other reason
than I wanted to wake up and see what happened next.

And I continue to want to open like that, like the flowers
who lift their heavy heads as the hills outside the window
flare gold for a moment before they turn
on their sides and bare their creased backs.

Even the cut flowers in a jar of water lift
their soon to be dead heads and open
their eyes, even they want a few more sips,
to dwell here, in paradise, a few days longer.