Rilke, Writing, and Autumn

Well, it's finally done: the grass got mowed. It took a team of five people with all the professional equipment, but the mowing and trimming is done. They even hauled off the mountain of grass clippings (most of it)--it filled the back of a pick-up truck. I picked my green beans, put a few things to rights, and set up the new shepherd's crooks with lanterns. While the furniture and so on are all stacked up, I may as well consider about putting things away for the season. That makes me a little sad, and will likely require a week or so of cajoling my husband to tuck it all in the shed (it feels like it just got taken out!!)-- but it's almost time. The weather forecast looks to be dry and sunny for the next week or so--finally. I won't start pestering to put away the table and chairs just yet. 

I have so many "to-do" things on my list! But not yet, not yet. We have a long weekend coming in October, and while much of it is already getting scheduled, not all of it is, and I can tend to the outdoor fall chores then. Unless it looks like it's going to rain--which it probably will-- but I can't worry about that now. The beans are producing, and the tomatoes are hanging in there. So will I.

This weekend is primarily devoted to writing. I have a two-day online generative writing class that will focus on Rilke and writing. I'm excited, even though it's all on screen. To spend a weekend digging into craft with people who "get me" will be nice. One of my favorite fall poems is by Rilke, titled "Autumn Day." It's been translated by a lot of poets over the years, but I have my favorite translation, done by Edward Snow in 1991. 

Here's the poem:

This translation is by Edward Snow 1991:

Autumn Day

Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your long shadows on the sundials,
and on the meadows let the winds go free.

Command the last fruits to be full;
give them just two more southern days,
urge them on to completion and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Who has no house now, will never build one.
Who is alone now, will long remain so,
will stay awake, read, write long letters
and will wander restlessly up and down
the tree-lines streets, when the leaves are drifting.

What I particularly love are the images. Sad, slow, lovely--and I am captivated by the direct address to God: "It is time." This whole idea of just a few more days echoes, for me, the feeling and the imagery in Keats' "To Autumn" that I posted yesterday. 

And yes, I have a strange affinity for fall poems. That ripe-to-overripe, sad/sweet, cold/fleeting warmth thing... I love it. 

Have a wonderful day,

C