Autumn Is A Pagan
#14 of poetry
The first step toward the building of culture is anthropomorphization, and not just in a Synonym-for-furry way. People relate to people. In order to have a relation to things, you have to find a way for those things-the sky, the sea, the sunset, the seasons, the weird chainsaw sculpture at the daily bus stop to work-to be people.
Autumn, he is wandering down in the market square
Where they are selling scarlet fruit and golden-tassled sheaves
Heaped on the fitted cobbles that are cloaked in drifting leaves,
And any citizen who likes can see him walking there.
He talks of truth and beauty, and the shameful price of bread.
He laughs at you, and passes you another mug of beer.
He wears a long brown coat, for it gets cold this time of year,
And crown of crimson bittersweet wound round his nut-brown head.
The old and weary gods stop by. He knows them each by name
For Autumn is a pagan and is older far than I.
Red leaves, grey clouds, gold harvest smells all haunt his heathen sky
For Autumn is a pagan and I love him just the same.
Spring is an agnostic, and she does not care to know
The names of any firework flowers that bloom around her feet.
She is too young to recognize the homeless in the street,
But smiles at them, to let them thaw a bit before they go.
Some days she is a Pantheist. Then every bloom is good,
The bees are buzzing hymns and if they sting you feel no pain.
Some days she is a Buddhist and wants nothing but more rain.
Some days she simply rages out the madness in her blood.
But Autumn is a pagan, and he is worldly-wise.
He is older, he is sadder, he knows everything, I think:
He knows why sacrifice is holy even in its stink,
And he is who I see at night when I have shut my eyes.
Summer is an atheist, loud, angry, unafraid.
When he gets drunk his bitter laughter thunders in black storms,
When he lies down to bed at last the night air remains warm,
He gave his word it would, you see. And all his debts are paid.
He forgives not. He forgets not. And to protect his own
He'll bleed and batter you, himself, and anyone he must.
He is the very superman: a lusty youth, and just,
And if he fears old age and time, he does not make it shown.
But Autumn is a pagan, and he has a gentler soul.
He knows she did not make the world, and loves it more therefore.
He does not rage, he pours another cider draft. His door
Is open to the cool breeze, and he has my heart in whole.
Winter is a Christian. He is virginal and cold.
I think he thinks the world and I will come to little good.
But still, he keeps good Christmas, as a decent Christian should,
And he will never notice if he ever does grow old.
His are the silenced days between long lone abyss of night.
What hope he has for warmth is faith in warmth beyond himself.
His skin and eyes are pale, for he has never had good health.
And in my heart of hearts I fear he may be proven right.
But Autumn is a pagan, and before the winter comes
We'll go to the fair together. We will muse on easeful death.
We will work wild useless magic with a windowpane and breath.
We will walk the pathless sunset woods to hear the pheasants drum.
We'll taste the chill blue northers as they sweep the sky above.
And he will be slightly holy, like a quiet household ghost.
With harvest charms, and mysteries, and the taste of apple-roast,
Aye, Autumn is a pagan, and it's Autumn who I love.