Autumn Breakfast by Dezső Kosztolányi

 

This is what autumn brought. Cool fruit

on a glass bowl. Heavy, dark-emerald

grapes, jasper-bright pears,

its countless, exuberant, glorious jewels.

Waterdrop runs on a berry,

and rolls away, like the diamond.

It is the grandeur, unpitying, serene,

introverted perfection.

It would be better to live. But the trees across

are waveing to me with their golden hands.

A Good Old Ode to Autumn

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I had to learn this by heart in school, and I loved every minute of memorizing it! — Nostalgia! 😛

Ode to Autumn by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Inspiration – Two Poems In the Spirit of Autumn

A couple of years ago I have written a poem but I didn’t know it was a replika to a poem I have read when I was a child. So this year I have found this poem and it made me remember the other one, thus I have translated the Hungarian poem to English and it resonates really well with my poem. It’s as if my mind had a secret dialog with the long deceased poet. 😀

It’s raining outside and I have this cozy feeling… It’s a good time to post these two poems. Here they are:



Dedication by Lajos Áprily



Forgive me. The meadow was frosty,

very purple the mountain,

the forest was a giant red stain,

fogive me: I found no flower.


But I couldn’t come empty handed:

where death its mighty tunes chanted,

I made a petal-less bouquet,

red berries, red sway.


But now give me your soul: slender vase,

which still keeps summer’s wine –

and the charm of withering away

wraps it in a ruddy shine.



Headless Stem (by me :P)



I couldn’t find winter-hardy flowers

Even Santa Claus was hibernating

Winter barley was off limits

on the winter market no petals at all

I had to slide to you in my pelisse

when my snow-tyres were deflated by

razor-sharp icicles Excuse me

but I couldn’t bring you blossoms

So please take this poem instead

as a clumsy dedication –

a headless stem

Autumn Is Coming!

And I am ready to embrace the mild weather when I don’t have to gobble down tons of ice cream to survive… 🙂 Not to mention that I don’t have to throw out my brain in the scorching hot but still ear-cutting current – I just cannot think in this heat! So here is my favorite funny poem about autumn – just to show my enthusiasm!

THE SAPPY HEASONS
by Eve Merriam

In the skue-bly sprays of ding
when yaffodils are dellow,
and tragnolia mees are mellow
then I feel a fively lellow,
fively lellow.

In the good old tummer-sime,
when lovers spike to loon,
and molden is the goon;
then I hum a tappy hune,
tappy hune.

When the autumn teaves are lurning,
and there’s lost upon the frand,
still Thanksgiving’s hose at cland;
so I’m feeling grimply sand,
grimply sand.

When the winter blorms are stowing,
and the snow is hiling pigh,
and nothing dreems to sy;
then I’m glad that ug am snI,
ug am snI.