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| Title | Summary |
|---|---|
| October | O hushed October morning mild |
| October | October is the month that seems All woven with midsummer dreams; She brings for us the golden days That fill the air with smoky haze, She brings for us the lisping breeze And wakes the gossips in the trees, Who whisper near the vacant nest Forsaken by its feathered guest. Now half the birds forget to sing, And half of them have taken wing, Before their pathway shall be lost Beneath the gossamer of frost. Zigzag across the yellow sky, They rustle here and flutter there, Until the boughs hang chill and bare,& |
| October | October is the treasurer of the year |
| October | This is the season in which the lambs begin to die, in which the boy in his red and blue plaid shirt gets down on his wrists and his knees to crawl into the moorland at night and spread a cross of pumice on their foreheads, in which he reads to them a hymn like a freighter burning with a cargo of ripened fruit because in the morning he will have to kill them. Because in the morning he will wake to find his father standing in the hall like a horse with a lamp in its mouth and he will have to wade into a river with only that silence in his arms, and he will harm them. Because |
| October | Bending above the spicy woods which blaze, |
| October (section I) |
Is it winter again, is it cold again, |
| Syracuse, October | Fuck the hot autumns of Charleston, fuck handsome Alabama, fuck the Deep South alcoholics standing in flannel in the summer sun. I drove north. I took Green Road to Hubbardsville and saw October in August, booted men hosing grit off the park pool’s bottom, crisp leaves lifted like the remnants of summer’s collective memory. I drove out or into it listening to the Liverpool Choir’s mournful version of the national anthem, the tuning forks of eastern townships bringing a Stravinsky more film score then symphony. I wanted the blaze of the unmuffled trumpet, the spin son |
| Snow in October | Today I saw a thing of arresting poignant beauty: A strong young tree, brave in its Autumn finery Of scarlet and burnt umber and flame yellow, Bending beneath a weight of early snow, Which sheathed the north side of its slender trunk, And spread a heavy white chilly afghan Over its crested leaves. Yet they thrust through, defiant, glowing, Claiming the right to live another fortnight, Clamoring that Indian Summer had not come, Crying “Cheat! Cheat!” because Winter had stretched Long chill fingers into brown, streaming hair Of fleeing October. The film of snow shrouded the |
| October Sonnet | Even on the 13th floor of a high building, Chicago’s |
| October Evening | Male-throated under the shallow sea-fog |