Autumn Poetry and my Autumn Armagnac

Poets have always written about the seasons. I know this because I passed my English Lit’ GCSE and poems about seasons have always been very popular. Autumn, I suppose because of it’s colours and it’s links to fading and dying seems to be particularly popular, probably because poets, in general, do seem to enjoy a bit of misery. These peoms can also be a bit long. Some of them bang on for verse after verse. John Keats ‘To Autumn’ is a case in point, and is almost as long as the ‘season of mellow fruitfulness’ itself.  I found myself rather keen on Emily Dickinson (and she lived in New England so she really saw some good leaf action). She wrote a lovely poem with no other title than the first line. I’m not sure about the copyright so here is a link…

The morns are meeker than they were. And of course there’s or this one by the fabulous Emily Bronte who I am also very partial to…

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.

Both of these are nice and simple and not too long. Just how I like my poetry, brimming with brevity. in fact, if Emily D or Emily B could have shortened their ditties to a limerick, I’d probably have liked them even more. Let’s have a go…I

There was a young season called Autumn…er… yes, tricky rhyme. Caught ’em? ‘Snort ’em”? Perhaps not.  I’ve tried before, but something always goes wrong. Like this one I wrote last year…

Summer’s gone, the Autumn comes

Draping trees with gold and rouge.

Winter waits to take the stage

With his chilly subterfuge.

Then the leaves begin to fall

Changing landscapes as they settle.

Me I like to sit inside

Listening to some heavy metal. 

OK that last line is not great… or actually true… but you get my drift. No?  This is the problem with me and poems and with having been writing vaguely amusing tripe

A poem wot I rote
A pome I rote – you might need glasses

for so long. About half way through a poem and I’m already beginning to think Oh dear, we havn’t had a laugh for a while, this rhyme needs a joke, and then I get bored and stick something silly in. Or i just indluge in doggerel in the first place.

However, I sat in my garden yesterday, in a fleece, considering when I should put all my prosecco away for the winter and working out that, as it was slightly chillier than a few days ago, I should possibly uncork one of my bottles of Armagnac. Autumn Armagnac. Ray Davies would be proud of me I thought. Why not write an Autumn poem myself.

So I came up with on and this time I embraced the silly and decided that I write is what I write so there is no point trying to be Keats or Yeats or anyone else with a wine lodge named after them. Here goes…

Autumn Armagnac

Autumn leaves are tumbling

Colour changed by time

Me? I sit here fumbling

Searching for a rhyme.

How can I describe this season

As September swiftly passes

And the leaves turn green to gold

Like armagnac in twisted glasses?

Beautiful corruption.

Glorious decay. 

This to me is Autumn

Now Summer’s passed away.

I’m happy enough with that. It’s got armagnac in it… unlike my glass a situation which I must rectify. Anyway. The main thing is (as Drew has constantly reminded me) Autumn is properly I think, or at least very, very close so start to think about those leaves and what to do with them. You mustn’t leave them on your lawn as they can cause disease and choke the grass so blowers, sweepers and so on are very much the thing right now. Watch out tomorrow for Dick’s blog on one of the the amazing leaf and lawn vacuums.   A wonder to behold. And if you want to have a go at an Autumn poem, we’d love to see it. Just post it on our facebook page. Enough from me. See ya. Holly.







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