Alex Waterhouse-Hayward: A Hushed October morning mild

3 October 2021

Today October 3, 2021 is a sunny fall day that should make me feel happy. But that is not so. It has been said that if you do not understand why someone is in grief for a long time then you are lucky not to understand.

There are two reasons why my grief for my Rosemary, who died on December 9, persists. I will never understand what it’s like to live alone, something that I am doing now. And I will never comprehend how married couples navigate separation and divorce.

I find that my depending on the presence of my two cats, Niño and Niña, is overwhelmingly pleasant. But when I must go shopping or leave them alone for some time I feel awfully guilty.

My cardiologist asked me last week about my cats. I told him that they were like glue and that I was talking to them (of course only in Spanish!). I further added that I was troubled as I was considering them to have many human characteristics. With a smile on his face the doctor told me, “Perhaps you are becoming a cat.”

I have written here about my finding that there are two memories, the dead ones in my head and the live ones of people and the cats that knew Rosemary.

Fall was always a time for sadness with Rosemary and me, as the garden was in decline and we had to prune and clean up. But there was also that hope of a coming spring and that the garden would be re-born. I do not know at this point if there is any hope for me that spring might bring relief. I have written about autumn quite a few times here and here in relation to Jorge Luís Borges and Julio Cortázar. Here with Borges and a few other poets. And here I wrote without any poetic reference. This time around I have found three lovely poems written in an original English.

I believe that today's scan of my fall roses does represent the beauty in decay. And these roses in all probility while experiencing their last hurrah they do promise to provide me with some hope and they will return in the spring.

Autumn – Emily Dickinson

The morns are meeker than they were

The nuts are getting brown;

The berry's cheek is plumper,

The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,

The field a scarlet gown.

Lest I should be old-fashioned,

I'll put a trinket on.

October – Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!

For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—

For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

Autumn

by William Carlos Williams

A stand of people

by an open

grave underneath

the heavy leaves

celebrates

the cut and fill

for the new road

where

an old man

on his knees

reaps a basket-

ful of

matted grasses for

his goats

More Emily Dickinson

A sweep of gray

It's full as opera

I cannot dance upon my Toes
a door just opened on the street
Amber slips away
Sleep

When August burning low
Pink Small and punctual
A slash of blue
I cannot dance upon my toes
Ah little rose
For hold them, blue to blue
The colour of the grave is green

Its temple stands, alway,

The Woman in white

Her Grace is not all she has

To know if any human eyes were near
Linda Melsted - the music of the violin does not emerge alone
The Charm invests her face
A sepal, a petal and a thorn
The Savior must have been a docile Gentleman
T were blessed to have seen
There is no frigate like a book
I pay in satin cash

Emily Dickinson's White Dress & a Hunter of Lost Souls