rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Last night I fell asleep watching something on television, but I don't remember what it was. This morning I woke up early, but I kept going back to sleep. The room was chilly, and nothing puts me back to sleep as well as the thought of getting out from under my warm blanket on a chilly morning. It was almost eleven o'clock when I finally managed to rouse myself. The feral cats were excited to see me arrive with their long-delayed breakfast.

It might have rained a bit more during the night, because the leaves were sparkling with drops of water and bright sunlight. The clouds have almost all vanished, and the wind has gone. It is still chilly after the storm, but the air is very fresh and carries the scent of damp grass and pine trees. It is feeling quite autumnal, despite the persistence of green leaves on many of the oaks. Tonight I might even crack open the pomegranate I bought last week. October is a good time to eat pomegranates. Clever fruit, to ripen just when the season makes it most appealing.

The storm began the task of re-carpeting the lawn with leaves. It should stay dry enough tomorrow for me to get another wheelie bin filled, and then I'll have two to put out tomorrow night. We'll see if I feel like raking tomorrow. I like the look of the leaves strewn about, and I'm always reluctant to rake them away. It's not laziness at all that sometimes keeps me from raking, no. Those leaves have a right to complete their life cycle in their own territory! Besides, the squirrels have hidden nuts under them! And raking is unnatural! But we shall see.

It seems to me that I ought to have some plans for the week, but I don't. There are no appointments, the shopping is all done (I even bought two new pairs of pants Friday,) and there is nothing of interest going on that would induce me to rouse my self from autumnal torpor. Except those leaves, of course, and I can easily argue myself out of dealing with them. Well, there is Halloween, but most years that turns out to be about the dullest of holidays in this place. I'll probably end up spending it on the Internets again, collecting candy for the mind. And the rest of the week I'll probably end up falling asleep in front of the television again. Ah, autumn can be such a trial.

Sunday Verse

The Dead Poet

by Al Purdy

I was altered in the placenta
by the dead brother before me
who built a place in the womb
knowing I was coming:
he wrote words on the walls of flesh
painting a woman inside a woman
whispering a faint lullaby
that sings in my blind heart still

The others were lumberjacks
backwoods wrestlers and farmers
their women were meek and mild
nothing of them survives
but an image inside an image
of a cookstove and the kettle boiling
—how else explain myself to myself
where does the song come from?

Now on my wanderings:
at the Alhambra's lyric dazzle
where the Moors built stone poems
a wan white face peering out
—and the shadow in Plato's cave
remembers the small dead one
—at Samarkand in pale blue light
the words came slowly from him
—I recall the music of blood
on the Street of the Silversmiths

Sleep softly spirit of earth
as the days and nights join hands
when everything becomes one thing
wait softly brother
but do not expect it to happen
that great whoop announcing resurrection
expect only a small whisper
of birds nesting and green things growing
and a brief saying of them
and know where the words came from


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