This might come as a surprise, because there is one poem which is, I believe, unfamiliar to most of the people here. However, I believe in sharing ideas and words, so maybe some of you would find the poem good or interesting. The poem was written by a Serbian contemporary poet Radmila Lazic, and translated into English by the American poet Charles Simic.

AUTUMN ODE

I’ll celebrate October and not May.
The strip-tease of trees in place of blossom time orgasms.
Grass, petal and leaf at the death’s door
Instead of wind-tossed trees and stalks
Decked up like marriage girls on a stroll.

Too many gewgaws, trinkets
Knickknacks and ornaments,
Too much bad taste
On the necks of branches and ears of petals.
The puritan autumn suits me more
Than spring bursting with health Like a young athlete
With his biceps raised to heaven.

I prefer the pacifism of amber;
Yellow, brown, ocher
To green invasion and terror of color.
The anemic sky is dearer to me
Than the menstruation of the sun.

Every bent over rose
Is dearer to me than the erection of buds
Or the whoring bee and flower.
I like the leaf turning yellow and coughing
Like a TB patient.
I match my color and my rhythm with him
Since just yesterday
I felt the lethal bite of spring.



I hope you like it.
Looking forward to hearing some comments...

What a lovely and unusual poem.

I agree with the sentiments too. Spring is all wholesome and fresh:

Than spring bursting with health Like a young athlete
With his biceps raised to heaven.


a little bit-world weary and debauched is much more sexy.

You always have to wonder with a poem on the spring vs. autumn topic, whether the poet had Keats' "To Autumn" in mind as he wrote it. The poem you posted is far different in tone and diction, of course, but Lazic has the same idea of knocking spring off its pedestal. Lazic's images are really striking (and Simic appears to do a wonderful job casting them into English). I mean, "the whoring bee and flower," "the menstruation of the sun", and others--great stuff.

tomrosemasters wrote:This might come as a surprise, because there is one poem which is, I believe, unfamiliar to most of the people here. However, I believe in sharing ideas and words, so maybe some of you would find the poem good or interesting. The poem was written by a Serbian contemporary poet Radmila Lazic, and translated into English by the American poet Charles Simic.

AUTUMN ODE

Intriguing poem. I think the underlying message is appreciation of the less celebrated and less obvious and even the sick, while pointing to the hazards (shallowness) of celebrating only the obviously beautiful - culminating with the last line, which I think is particularly powerful, the 'lethal bite of spring'.

I was ruminating on the state of affairs in the wordl in general, and the United States in particular, and this poem came to mind. It was written in 1919, but seem applicable today.

Rudyard Kipling:

The Gods of the Copybook Headings

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I Make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place.
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Heading said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four --
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

* * * * *

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man --
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began --
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire --
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Dear Penelope, DWill, and Giselle,
thank you for your comments. I'm happy that you liked the poem.
To be honest, I wasn't sure if people would find it interesting, because it has maybe unusual imagery and diction. So you can imagine my happiness and surprise when I saw your posts.
It seems that good literature and poetry can find its readers all around the world:)
And, yes, it's true, Charles Simic did an excellent translation.

All the best,
Milan

tomrose: Your name is Milan? Milan Kundera, is a great writer. I loved 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being', both the book and the film. Although. my husband was somewhat surprised when he watched the film on video with me!!!

Yes, Eastern European language and perception differs a little.....but that is what makes it interesting.

Penelope wrote:tomrose: Your name is Milan? Milan Kundera, is a great writer. I loved 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being', both the book and the film. Although. my husband was somewhat surprised when he watched the film on video with me!!!

Yes, Eastern European language and perception differs a little.....but that is what makes it interesting.

Yes, My name is Milan. And tomrosemasters is from Thomas Rose-Masters, my friend whose book will be published soon.
There is a topic in the Fiction Book Forum, in regards to his novel The Birdman Cycle. You can find the blurb and the cover there. Feel free to comment

Milan Kundera, a great writer. I especially liked his novel The Joke, but of course The Unbearable Lightness is the classic.
And, as we are mentioning Eastern European languages, I remembered Wisława Szymborska, Polish poet. She is really great.

Lot's Wife

They say I looked back out of curiosity.
But I could have had other reasons.
I looked back mourning my silver bowl.
Carelessly, while tying my sandal strap.
So I wouldn't have to keep staring at the righteous nape
of my husband Lot's neck.
From the sudden conviction that if I dropped dead
he wouldn't so much as hesitate.
From the disobedience of the meek.
Checking for pursuers.
Struck by the silence, hoping God had changed his mind.
Our two daughters were already vanishing over the hilltop.
I felt age within me. Distance.
The futility of wandering. Torpor.
I looked back setting my bundle down.
I looked back not knowing where to set my foot.
Serpents appeared on my path,
spiders, field mice, baby vultures.
They were neither good nor evil now--every living thing
was simply creeping or hopping along in the mass panic.
I looked back in desolation.
In shame because we had stolen away.
Wanting to cry out, to go home.
Or only when a sudden gust of wind
unbound my hair and lifted up my robe.
It seemed to me that they were watching from the walls of Sodom
and bursting into thunderous laughter again and again.
I looked back in anger.
To savor their terrible fate.
I looked back for all the reasons given above.
I looked back involuntarily.
It was only a rock that turned underfoot, growling at me.
It was a sudden crack that stopped me in my tracks.
A hamster on its hind paws tottered on the edge.
It was then we both glanced back.
No, no. I ran on,
I crept, I flew upward
until darkness fell from the heavens
and with it scorching gravel and dead birds.
I couldn't breathe and spun around and around.
Anyone who saw me must have thought I was dancing.
It's not inconceivable that my eyes were open.
It's possible I fell facing the city.

Wislawa Szymborska

P. S. This is the poem that I studied and analyzed with my students when we did the Bible. I wanted to show them how contemporary literature uses motifs and themes from the Bible, etc.

It is fascinating to speculate on these bizarre Bible stories. I always thought that Lot's wife had a raw deal. She would probably look back with longing rather than curiosity, I think, since it was her home.

This poem is more haunting than beautiful. Hard to speculate on a persons' motives for doing something so normal. After all, we don't always understand our own motives for doing some things.

Here is another on the same theme, which is also very haunting:-

Lot's Wife

by Anna Akhmatova
translated by Max Hayward and Stanley Kunitz

And the just man trailed God's shining agent,
over a black mountain, in his giant track,
while a restless voice kept harrying his woman:
"It's not too late, you can still look back

at the red towers of your native Sodom,
the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,
at the empty windows set in the tall house
where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed."

A single glance: a sudden dart of pain
stitching her eyes before she made a sound . . .
Her body flaked into transparent salt,
and her swift legs rooted to the ground.

Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem
too insignificant for our concern?
Yet in my heart I never will deny her,
who suffered death because she chose to turn.