Anyway, I have been doing my daily walking, and I have been waiting for Nature to start showing out, for the colors to change, and to be wowed by something…anything. It is not happening. Oh, a few sumac bushes have already turned scarlet red, and they really stand out, but I noticed today that the leaves have fallen off those early color-turners. A sycamore tree or two have a few yellow leaves, but more leaves are brown than yellow. I don’t know if it is the dry summer or the warm temperatures, but I fear that here in Salem we are not going to see a colorful fall. What a pity!
It reminds me of when poetic inspiration does not come. All things being equal, it would seem that I should be able to sit down and write a poem any time. I am always thinking, I am always reading books and poems that could inspire me, and I observe nature daily and tend to be stirred by at least some thing that I see. However, in my fifties, I realize that I have to accept the harvest of inspiration when it comes, and it does not come often, and, as often, when it does come, it comes at an inconvenient time. I clearly remember three, maybe four, times in my life when I could simply sit and write, and 90% of all that I have ever written has “happened” in those short bursts. Some people have suggested that I recreate those time of inspired work, but I can think of no common theme. A couple of times were very emotional times, times when I felt very alone in the world, and I needed a friend, and my friend was poetry. However, I also had a burst of inspiration a couple of years ago when my life could not have been more comfortable, and I felt most satisfied with my life. The ideas appeared, and they made sense to me. Who knows why poetic inspiration is so difficult? Who knows why fall colors are not shining upon us yet?
I took the two water pictures that I have posted on my walk Saturday morning.
Here is a poem about water from Atheists and Empty Spaces. This one is about rain not just any ol’ water.
The clouds are fat.
The raindrops twinkle.
From brim of hat
To toe, they sprinkle.
The Earth transpires[i].
Dust becomes mud.
Ssshhh! Say the tires
In a paved river flood.
It’s tap, tap on the roof,
Peck, peck at the windows,
Noiselessly aloof
Until a gust of wind blows.
A mist-filled twirling breeze
Refracts a farmhouse light.
It glisters[ii] in the trees
And waltzes through the night.
The rain falls where it may
On just and unjust places[iii]
But won’t forget the day
It filled all empty spaces[iv].
[i] Transpire is used here to mean secreting water in the form of a vapor usually through a living cell. [ii] In Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, Act 2, Scene 7, the Prince of Morocco says, “All that glisters is not gold,” as he seeks to choose the correct casket or box of treasure to win Portia’s hand. Our misspeaking of this phrase has become “All that glitters is not gold.” I prefer the word “glisters” myself. I cannot say why I wanted to footnote this. [iii] Referring to Matthew 5:45-The sun shines on the wicked and the good; the rain falls on the just and the unjust. [iv] The rainbow, the symbol denoted in the Bible as God’s promise not to destroy all of life on Earth with a flood ever again in Genesis 9:12-17, is implied here as a reminder also to the rain.
Comments