Ode to September

“No longer quite summer and not yet the heart of fall, September is both heat and cold, dark and light.”

President’s note: We here at Brooklin Poetry Society are so happy to return to our monthly meetings and blog posts. We start this year’s blog posts off with this beautiful and introspective piece by one of our newest and accomplished members, Fj Doucet. We hope you enjoy this reflection on poetry!

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September! September! How like a poem is September! The first month of autumn, September lives ambivalently, tucked away in the liminal spaces of sense and memory. It is the start of a season as disorienting as a confession. No longer quite summer and not yet the heart of fall, September is both heat and cold, dark and light. The lush greenery of August, set aflame, falls to the ground and becomes a textured blanket. Once settled, those delicate remains of summer emit a rich, inimitable perfume, one capable of summoning memories of the season long after it has surrendered to the blue chill of winter.

Perhaps that duality is why my childhood memories of autumn are so vivid. They exist in an uneasy place where the cooling air shook off the laziness of summer, but the afternoons could still turn oppressively warm. In the short evening hours between returning from school and the disappearance of the sun, I would often run through fields covered with long, dying grasses, straw-like protrusions burned gold and bowed to the hardening ground. Yet here and there my shoes would still trample a lingering flower, and at the end of the jaunt I was just as likely to throw my sweater away as keep it on.

And how musical those tumbles through the evening fields were, how filled with their own rhythm and natural poetry. The leaves rustled and crunched, flights of birds cawed from far overhead, preparing to follow the pull of blood and instinct to far-away places I could only dream of, and the wind susurrated like a chilly whisper in the encroaching dark. And it was often dark, for the autumn sky is more oppressive than a summer sky, even the bluest and most open dome touched by hints of purple and red. The brightest day is tense with the promise of night.

It must be a hunter’s month, September, the sky rich with game in those final moons before the cold, the rifle proffering a dark and heavy shadow to the horizon. And certainly, it is a poet’s season, perhaps more than any other, for meaning in poetry is most effectual when couched between what is said and what is yet to be said, between what has gone, and what is yet to come—between the dead and the living, between what is whispered and what is kept utterly silent, clasped to the breast.

As a child staring up at the sky, I did not yet have the words to express that ambivalence, but I felt it in my blood, even as the birds felt the call to the south. The ambivalent, indeed the unspeakable, appealed greatly to me on those haunted afternoons and stayed close after, to become a part of my nature–or perhaps it is true that a poet is not made, but born, and I have always followed what cannot, must not, be clearly expressed.

So here I am again in September, a poet still, and childhood far behind me. And though there is beauty to be found in every season, when I step outside late of a September afternoon, I am once more confronted by an inimitable, sensual tapestry, no less striking than when I was a girl. It’s time again to breathe in the perfume of dying flowers and chase like a hunter this blazing chromatic riot of beauty that is all the more affecting for its fleeting, dual nature. Here it is, cleaved in two parts, side by side like a mirror–gold in the sky and gold on the ground.

Here now are some poets born in September:

W.S. Merwin 1927

Dame Edith Sitwell, 1887

H.D. (Hilda Doolittle),  1886

Alfred Noyes, 1880

Elinor Wylie, 1885

by Fj Doucet

April’s blog blooms

What is a blog? Why do we do it?

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No poet coined such a stone of a word, a blotch of ink that we invite others to step in so they can seep the world from our colour. Feet in ink. A bodiless soup and swimming.

What would e.e. cummings do with the word “blog”? Perhaps something like this:

the bodiless blanket lets me sleep, it is my bed, my waking, the warmth that pulls me from the hushed hello of all darkness and creaking forest mystery, to the tinkering tatatata of eyelashes brushing day, of you and wonder and word and yes and word and yes…bodiless blog of thinking, trying to catch the river in its net of words to say:  “here here here…  is beauty, is living, is the never-again-crystalized moment of wonder.” Where we meet has always been sacred space.

The Brooklin Poetry Society …  and all places where poets, writers, artists, lovers meet is sacred space. My hope is that we all venture into such sacred space. It graces us with a kind of divine presence and sharing that together is beautiful.

I joined the BPS I forget when now which is a comforting thought, like so many family visits: you forget who brought the casserole two years ago.

It is my first poetry club and this, my first blog.

And April.

New beginnings, the pushing of new growth through crusty bark, stiff limbs, dormant heavy soil, feeling newness leak in…  a kind of calling that says you can grow, you can be more.   Poetry is like that too.  Poetry is April.

I suppose you could say poetry is the raspberry that sings like opera in your mouth in June…  the room that keeps you warm in winter, the letting-go leaf that shows time has come in Autumn. So alas, poetry is for all seasons, all reasons and why not especially now, in the surge of Spring?

April will ask us to heed new voices, new branches, to let go of what is past, and to flower each and every one of us in whatever colour/shape/size/space we come upon; let us flower.

We always welcome new members to the BPS, perhaps this will be the April of our Club too. And April is #National Poetry Month.

And the first step to celebrate that is with our own feet, our voices, our attention, our own participation.

Check out the League of Canadian Poets for events: 

http://poets.ca/events/list/

Our own BPS poetry workshop on April 9th at the Whitby Public Library (Central branch) On April 9th: https://www.whitbylibrary.ca/ (to register:

The Griffin Prize:

https://www.griffinpoetryprize.com/event/national-poetry-month/

Open Mike Calendar:

https://poetry.openmikes.org/calendar/ON/2019/4

And finally, some Poets Born in April:

George Herbert 1593-1633

Maya Angelou 1928
William Wordsworth 1770

William Shakespeare 1564-1616

Vladimir Nabokov 1899
Walter de la Mare 1873-1956

Seamus Heaney 1939

Annie Dillard 1945

More poetry please!

Jenny Sorensen

Arts Funding Update

Brooklin Poetry Society is so pleased to announce it has received arts funding from the Mayor’s Community Development Fund, Town of Whitby!

Many thanks to past President John Di Leonardo for his work on initiating the request for funds, and especially to Don Mitchell, Mayor of Whitby and the Community Development Fund for their support of arts in our community!

mayor's community development fund

For information about the Fund, please go to: http://www.whitby.ca/en/townhall/Community-Development-Funds.asp