Where are the autumns
of my youth?
.
. by @d-pend ..
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Where are the autumns of my youth?
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Where are the autumns of my youth,
with leaves fallen, not-fallen, and falling
forever — never to contact the Earth?
Where is the whip of the wind,
thin aqua cirrus of mist?
Where is the leap of the flame
across every age-spotted vein,
leafen-hands crimson with shame —
ruby with glory, yellow with envy,
pinken'd with wisdom, orange with story,
purple with majesty, emerald with promise,
brown-stemmèd endurance —
white-crownèd abhorrence.
A bright moss all a-dream, and cold lichen,
swirl of an infinite frost-oxymoron;
thundering stream and a phial of absence,
vacuum of warmth and a marvel'd abyss —
bestrewn with the meagre-sad skeleton sent
to circle horizon with shrivelèd trees:
arbor of night, soft-sparkled with tears.
Ice of abandonment, self-abnegation;
a splash of a scald by the steam at the station.
At town or at home or at least —
a hint of 'at home' in the street.
A throb of the heart in the heath
and a pang in the soul for the hearth
that still will be waiting at home.
Where are the terrors of my youth;
The ghouls and the gremlins of mind —
rising, half-risen, soon-risen,
from the cold-harsh corpse of the ground?
Where are the restless shades,
and the tyrannic titans of thought
who crumble mahogany frames
of structures ill-begot?
Where is the line of the pain,
tracèd in fractal grooves —
through cement-crack or tea-leaves:
through smoke of sandalwood?
Where is the whip of the wind,
thin orange cirrus of moon?
Where is the ghost of the flame
across every age-spurnèd vein,
gnarls of a wooden fist ashen-away?
Where is the crimson and gray,
green-yellow-orange — blue of the sky,
ink of the night — an ocean of dream.
Where are the long-lovèd, long-lost things
that float upon fancy and falseness afar
from reason romantic with scent of the wild,
ozone fermented with crisp effervescence?
Where are the wreaths and wraiths,
where are the scarves and shades,
where are the leaves and lessons
time spiraled down from the trees:
falling on me — falling and never to reach;
never touch memory deep, never caress
the essence I'd keep, never complete
the circuit I sought, never rescind
the limitless doubt, never assault
the fathomless joy, never remain
to be thought of again —
all of the autumns
of all of the years
of my youth?
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words and photos by @d-pendcreated for HIVE on Sept. 24, 2020
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An intense poem tinged with sweet melancholy with the richness of the contents. Wonderfully in soul color!
Great stuff man.
Thanks a lot! Have a great one my friend.
Autumn is a little slower than other seasons in Korea. There is nothing wrong with that. It lasts from the end of September until the middle of November. That's two months longer than Chicago's autumn which is just the last week of September. The leaves haven't begun to change colors here but they will. This picture is from last year.
But I think this is the picture you were looking for:
Thank you for posting in The Ink Well.
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