Greetings, Poetry Lovers!
Here in coastal South Carolina, the days are still warm, but not excessively hot; some leaves are scattered on the ground; and we're still keeping a cautious eye ocean-ward after an unusually quiet start to the hurricane season in our corner of the Atlantic, anyway. (The peak Atlantic season occurs in September and October.)
Our kids in and near the mountains report cooler days of late, and at our Upstate South Carolina house last weekend, the deep green of summer is giving away to early hints of color in the trees.
Back at the coast, I've been making collages featuring actual postcards of bathing beauties from the early 1900s. I have some for sale at a local shop here, and I'll be adding some (such as the one pictured above) to my Etsy shop, too. I guess it's my way of hanging on to summer a wee bit, even as the calendar pages turn themselves to autumn....
Here are a couple of September poems to help me get oriented, and maybe they'll strike your fancy as well. The first even begins with a nod to the sea.
September
By Joanne Kyger (1934-2017)
The grasses are light brown
and the ocean comes in
long shimmering lines
under the fleet from last night
which dozes now in the early morning
...
Enjoy the rest of this rich poem here. And you can read more about Joanne Kyger's rich life here.
And here is a poem published in 1914, a few years after that postcard above was published, as a matter of fact.
September Midnight
By Sara Teasdale
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.
The grasshopper's horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.
Originally published in Poetry, March 1914. You can read more about Sara Teasdale here.
Back to the present, hop on over to Australia to enjoy a different season from mine in the Northern Hemisphere, and lots of great poetry - Kat Apel has our Roundup (& a "Katch-up"!). Thanks, Kat. :0)
