[Julie Steiner]

Norman Ball has thrown down this gauntlet:

Originally Posted by Norman Ball

...I see the ramping up of Fall poems across the way, so it got me thunkin'...

It's an interesting (though perhaps ill--fated) poetic challenge to re-imagine Fall without recourse to leaves, amber, crunching sounds or rakes. Can it be done, or has the season itself been permanently consigned to certain obligatory touchstones?

Graves (notoriously stingy over the appellation of 'poet') suggests that poetry is inseparable from the rhythms of moon (and menstrual) cycles, crop yields, fallow and pregnant fields, etc. Thus poetry itself is a celebration of the seasonal ebb and flow of fertility. Surely the modern, urban (urbane?) poet might take exception to this very narrow furrow.

Does Fall have residual meaning beyond fertility in abeyance, in which case the onslaught of falling leaves may become well-nigh unavoidable?

Andrew M. responded:

Originally Posted by Andrew Mandelbaum

Norm! Make a list of all the touchstones forbidden by the Arlington Manifesto and then let's have a challenge to write a piece to Autumn without them. If they all suck, we will know.

Okay, let's have at it, then. I'm at a huge advantage, living in San Diego...although yesterday it was 103F, so maybe not. I mainly know it's autumn because I'm walking face-first into so many spiderwebs. And because my husband's constantly watching football.

[RCL]

Bereavements

When fall winds tear and twist the kites,
those diving planes leave kids bereft.
Summer breezes tantalized their kites
too soon confined to tree-bound heights.
Hung up on branches, the battered kites
have lost their lift and look bereft.
When fall winds tear and twist the kites,
those captured kites leave kids bereft.

[Roger Slater]

I started out with a leafless fall, but ended up having to add another season to the mix as well:


FALL AND WINTER

Day by day
the daylight shrinks,
but then just when
the whole world thinks

the daylight's doomed
to disappear,
help arrives.
Winter's here.

Unlikely hero,
how it snows!
But day by day
the daylight grows.

[Douglas G. Brown]

I don't know who wrote this, but it comes to mind about the 3rd week of January. Anyway, it is devoid of any saccharine poetic sentiment;

Spring has sprung,
Fall has fell;
Winter's come,
And it's cold as hell.

[Gail White]

Douglas, the version of this that I remember is:

Spring has Sprung
Fall has fell
Summer's here
and it's hot as usual.

[Douglas G. Brown]

Gail,

I've never heard your version. I'm guessing that our difference in latitude has something to do with it.

[Erik Olson]

I prayed the dog-star, Summer’s rage, might wane
Scorched by sun’s beams and blanketed with sweat
I got my wish; I’m drowning deep in rain
The suns’ too frail, my walks too swampy wet
I miss that over ripe and rotting shine
Autumn yields heat to miss and cold to moan
According to lament my season’s known
First flaming sun’s excess, now it's decline.

Erik

[Erik Olson]

I know the Season by your looks
In Summer sprightly airs, in Fall
You never wink at me at all--
Head buried in a bunch of books.