Halloween

Halloween, or the evening before All Hallows, has been a tradition in western culture that goes all the way back to the Celts almost 2,000 years ago even though the name was not used until about the 16th Century. It was believed that the evening before All Saints Day (All Hallows) on November 1st, the spirits of the deceased, both good and bad, were allowed out for one “merry romp” in the real world before sunrise on November 1st. Probably one of the most inventive depictions of this yearly event is the animated segment, “Night on Bald Mountain,” from Walt Disney’s 1940 movie, Fantasia.

Souling, or the carving and lighting of a hollowed out turnip in commemoration of deceased loved ones, is maintained in the tradition of carving out pumpkins, far more plentiful in the New World. (Thank God! Could you imagine hollowing out a turnip today? Especially with all that wax!)

Family members wanting to attract the souls of their loved ones, while frightening away the evil spirits that were also on the loose, would dress in costume and hang out in front of homes, collecting food from passersby for their efforts. Bonfires lit in the night, once used for the offering of animal bones to satisfy these spirits, lent their colors of orange and black to the holiday. I guess the inclusion of witches, werewolves, black cats, ghosts, goblins, vampires and all manner of bats, were added later.

I looked over poetry about the celebration of Halloween and was not particularly inspired. It seems that holidays just don’t inspire poetry beyond the banal and predictable. Maybe it’s the orthodoxy of our own traditions that cause us to look at holidays in this way. Particularly this holiday. For our own fears are rarely inhabited by stereotypic characters of witches, werewolves, black cats, ghosts, goblins and vampires. Our own fears are usually far more terrifying. And if there are ghosts, they are the ghosts of lost love, of people we have known and loved. Or hated now with guilt. And our vampires suck our blood more metaphorically through our bank accounts than Count Vlad the Impaler ever did. Or maybe it’s because the type of Halloween demons we envision on this holiday are more fun to be scared of, like a ride in an amusement park, when they are not rooted in our deepest of fears. Who knows?

Halloween has become more the social ritual of custom than the religious belief rooted in life and death, good and evil, innocence and guilt. If it still were, what fun would that be?

Lamp Glow

Lamp Glow
Christopher Bogart

Cold crisp air frosts the autumn night.
The amber moon plays hide and seek
Bare trees –
Bearing limbs –
Leaves rustling in the night air.
Persistent breezes
Inundate –
Articulate –
Then vanish
As quickly as they arrive.

Old homes,
Sentries of the silent streets,
Silent pasts,
Rest in the shadows of present darkness.
Glowing lamps
In bow windows
Shed warm light:
A welcome
To the night traveler,
Tempting him to stay,
To delay
The journey he needs to make,
The destination he can’t forsake.

Dry leaves skitter-scatter
Before his feet.
Beat.
Retreat.
Tumbling ahead of gusts,
To scurry to the curbs below.

Lead onward then,
With lungs full of cold, dry air.
Hair tingling,
Mingling
With the feeling
Of frosty evenings –
Precursor of the long cold winter
Yet to come.

Sonnet 3

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.
Richard Lovelace, “To Althea, from Prison” (1618 – 1657)


Sir Richard Lovelace wrote this about his understanding of the concept of freedom when he was incarcerated not once but twice for championing unpopular causes. I have begun this post with this quote because I too have come to understand that concept of freedom in ostensibly confining circumstances. However, the confines I wish to speak of do not have to do with mortar and brick, but of poetic convention.

The Shakespearian sonnet, like the other two sonnets of its time, the Petrarchan and the Spenserian, are bound by certain literary constraints. While they are all fourteen lines long, with the last two lines ending in a couplet, the Shakespearian sonnet has a rhyme scheme of ababcdcdefefgg. The first four lines of this sonnet introduce the theme, the second four expand it, the third four, called the turn, refocus it, and the last two leave the reader with the message. Sounds pretty confining to me. Yet it is not, or at least I do not find it so. There seems to be, like the freedom Richard Lovelace found in prison, an odd liberty within the confines. And a chance for creativity.

I have written over twenty of these sonnets over the last ten years, and have shared a few of them with you in past posts. Tonight I am sharing one about autumn.

Sonnet 3
Christopher Bogart

When autumn breezes whip through bright-hued leaves
And strip the bowing branches, bark and bare,
Their clatter can be heard from sheltered eaves
To the dark recesses of the black bats’ lair.
Air seems to be so crisp and colors bright,
As winds whip through the brittle brambles brown.
Dry leaves skitter scatter through half- light
To follow the last rays of the rouge sun down.
Soon deepening darkness will envelop all,
Save faded ribbons of pink that streak the sky,
Thin clouds that have followed the faded ball
As season, sunset and the day’s dusk die.
Fall is a feast our seasoned eyes must see,
For all our lives soon strip bare like a tree.

Free Fall

Free Fall
Christopher Bogart

Autumn morns fall frosty bold.
Still cold colors trees,
Retreating green,
To scarlet, gold,
And russet red
In faded shades,
Their leaves
Drift
From thin mahogany stems
Not to retreat
But to retire
In a silent conspiracy
With a cold north wind.

These wooden soldiers line the roads
In wait for the late great sun
To run its faded course,
Leaving land to chill and dim
As if in grim twilight.

Soon dying shrivels brittle brown.
Soon the pale sky’s eye fades and fails.
Dry leaves quail at the chilling breeze.
Milkweed angels, flying high,
Surrender to the wind. They fall
To the stone cold ground below.

Parchment leaves on sheaves of corn
Flutter worn,
Wave farewell to warmth, in a
Short quick fall to silence.

Nature dies without a tear.
Ennui permeates the air.
Black bats flutter
Webbed wings to vacant barns,
There to scream from splintered rafters
At the orange bright, quick round
Of the harvest moon.

It’s promises beneath they’re bound to keep.
So deep below the white of winter sleep,
They dream the temperate dreams of dewy morns.

Just As It Was

Just As It Was
Christopher Bogart

I took a walk today because
there seemed to be no other way
to get from point A to point B.

It was an amazing experience
to slowly pass each house,
each tree, each blade of grass
and see them for the first time.

I didn’t know that there was a pineapple
on the lintel of that old white house
that graced the street that runs
right through the town,
a welcome gesture, it seemed to me,
as well as a talisman for
my new endeavor,
my new adventure,
my new mode of transportation.

The sensation of sight and smell and sound
unfolded around me as I kept a steady pace,
regulating my gait to what assailed my eyes,
my nose and my ears.
All fears of distance and of time seemed to disappear,
dissipated like so much steam,
from frosty dew that lay upon the grass
in the cool crisp autumn air of morning.

And, without warning, I stumbled upon
discovery after discovery,
like so much treasure haphazardly
strewn upon the path I trod today.

As I approached the entrance to Walcott Park,
a middle aged caretaker with a salt-and-pepper beard
worked to clear away debris from last week’s storm.
“Good morning.” I said,
And, for the first time in a long time,
I really meant it.
“Good morning.” He replied. “Nice day.”
He seemed to mean it too.
“It sure is.” I breathed in clear fresh air.
“I love the autumn.” He shared the thought with me,
as he dragged dead branches to the pile.
“I, too.”

As I walked past him, he regretfully added,
“To bad the leaves have to fall.”
And as I looked around me, and measured the day
I realized, for the first time in a long time,
and in so many ways
that maybe he was right.
It seemed perfect,
just as it was.

Autumn Reverie

Autumn Reverie
Christopher Bogart

It is a time
When the air becomes
Crisp and cool,
And the sky turns
A deepened blue.
Clouds gleam
In the kind clear rays –
A bright white light.
And a faint smell
Of fresh, crisp apples
Tints the air…

It is this time
That I look to the green leaves,
Dancing to the wind’s tune,
And see the possibility
Of orange,
Flame red,
And russet yellow
Tint their nature.

My bones chill,
And my mind awakens
To a spirit new,
Gliding on that wind,
And turning to me
As if to beckon
That I follow his chase…
His race
To the setting sun.

It is the endings
That summon
Beginnings.

Shadow Dance

Shadow Dance
Christopher Bogart

The flickering black shadows
Of the gathering of leaves,
Made animate
By the stiff autumnal breeze,
Bounce carelessly
Off gnarled gray bark.

The arc, clear sunlight
Plays upon the stage
These somber trees provide,
Illuminate the pages
Of neighboring limbs.

Their life is limited
To a slow drifting death
As they transform
From dark green haze
To a brilliant fiery blaze
In a vain attempt to hide
From the chilling eye
Of a fickle sun.

They Flee from Me That Sometime Did Me Seek

The Hunt in the Forest (Paolo Uccello) Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, England

They Flee from Me That Sometime Did Me Seek
Sir Thomas Wyatt

They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild, and do not remember
That sometime they have put themselves in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.

Thanked be to Fortune, it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better; but once in special:
In thin array, after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown did from her shoulders fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small,
Therewith all sweetly did me kiss
And softly said, "Dear heart, how like you this?"

It was no dream, -I lay broad waking.
But all is turned, thorough my gentleness,
Into a strange fashion of forsaking:
And I have leave to go of her goodness,
And she also to use new-fangledness.
But since that I unkindly so am served,
I would fain know what hath she now deserved.


I have been thinking a lot about poetry lately. And when I do, I find that I must split my mind between what I have learned all of my life to be of beauty in this art form, and what today is defined as poetry by many modern poets. “Publishable poetry” today, from what I am told, is narrative unrhymed poetry. Any other type of poetry, the rhymed type, for example, is considered by “great minds” in the poetry world to be unpublishable. I sometimes wonder whether that is more a dictum on their part than an observation. As the one or two people that have read this blog since I began posting on it last December must surely recognize, I have a problem with dictums of any sort on what is, and what is not, good poetry. In one of my first posts, “Ars Poetica,” I comment on what I believe poetry to be, and say very little about what I think it is not. In a poem I posted a little later, in fact twice, entitled “There Seems to Be No Time For Rhyme Anymore,” I speak to this issue with tongue in cheek. However, you can leave your tongue in your cheek for just so long before you run the risk of biting into it accidently. Even the name of this blog, “I had fallen in love with words”, a quote from the Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas, hints at my belief in the main element of good poetry, the power of words; and, because of that belief, leaves me with a problem of “split personality."

To begin with the older perception, since my student days when I was introduced to poetry in elementary school, through high school and into higher education, as well as over forty years of teaching literature, I, like Dylan Thomas, had fallen in love with words, and found that love affair most realized in the reading of, study of, and appreciation of, poetry. From the alliteration of the Anglo-Saxon poets all the way through to the present day, all poetry touched me with its linguistic beauty. And yet, much of the poetry I have studied all of my life is, to those who dare to define the art today, is tolerated in its own time, but anathema today. And I am left to wonder, and to be amazed at the elements of beauty in this “past poetry.” How I wish I could write as they. How I wish I could make words do my biding in the way those poets of the past harnessed them to do.

At the beginning of this entry, I have posted a painting and a poem that is both romance and metaphor. The painting, The Hunt in the Forest by Paolo Uccello is both a renaissance metaphor for the pursuit of romance; and, for me, a metaphor for the elusive nature of the art of writing great poetry. The poem, by the English renaissance poet, Sir Thomas Wyatt, is too again for me a metaphor for the same two modalities that lie within the painting. And I, as I read both, are left to ponder long, and to convince myself that, in truth, it was no dream.

Autumn Reverie

When I went to elementary school, many years ago, we were taught to appreciate poetry by memorizing it. Not a bad idea for today as well. Oh, I know that in educational circles today, memorization of any sort is treated as well as a leper on a hot day. Well, that’s too bad because most of our great poetic literature has come down to us in this way. Beowulf, for example, was memorized by scops, singers who recited epic poetry for the entertainment and enlightenment of their communities and who found it easier to memorize a long epic if they added alliteration and rhyme. If you’re singing a song or taking a part in a play, you have to memorize the lyrics or the lines. So what’s the big deal? I know that schooling in the nineteenth century was done primarily by repetition, sometimes with a number of recitations all going on at once, hence the name “blab” schools. I am not advocating a return to that. Just the use of memorization every once and a while to add enrichment to individual memory.

But I digress. One of the poems I had to memorize was by Bliss Carmen, a Canadian poet, called “A Vagabond Song.” I still love that poem. Whenever I see the trees beginning to turn color in the beginning of the fall, the lines of that poem come into my mind. I am posting the poem below to share it with you.

I am so glad I was made to memorize this poem so very many years ago. Maybe you would like to memorize it as well. Or, for that matter, the poem I wrote below it. No? Well, maybe another time.

A Vagabond Song
Bliss Carmen

There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood –
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

And the scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like smoke upon the hills.

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.



Autumn Reverie
Christopher Bogart

It is a time
When the air becomes
Crisp and cool,
And the sky turns
A deepened blue.
Clouds gleam
In kind clear rays –
Bright white light,
And a faint smell
Of sweet, crisp apples
Tints the air…

It is this time
That I look to green leaves,
Dancing to the wind’s tune,
And see the possibility
Of orange,
Flame red,
And russet yellow
Tint their terpsichore.

My bones chill,
And my mind awakens
To a spirit new,
Gliding on that wind,
And turning to me
As if to beckon
That I follow its chase…
Its race
To the setting sun.

Autumn

I love Autumn! Loved it for most of my life. Maybe it has been because, since childhood, I got sinus infections and allergies in the winter, spring and summer. But in the fall, I breathed clear. No stuffed sinuses. No post-nasal drip. Just the clean crisp air of autumn. Now, unfortunately, it is also the time that my arthritis in my back, neck, shoulder and hands acts up. But I don’t mind. I still love autumn. It is still my favorite season.

It seems that whenever the air cools and dries and the leaves begin to turn to vibrant shades of orange, red, yellow and gold, I want to write a poem. I have been doing it for many years now. It seems that the season just inspires me. The sky turns a deeper blue, the air clear and dry, and smells and sounds become more acute. School has started, and with it, all of fall sports.

There is a sugar maple a few streets down from where I live. That tree is my barometer. When the tips of its leaves begin to turn a bright orange, I know that autumn coming.

Autumn has some of the most familiar markers to the American psyche: apples, pumpkins, burning leaves, brightly-colored mums, multi-colored leaves, red berries, and the most astonishing sunsets. Wearing shorts and the beach are forgotten, tucked away in our memories until the following year.

Autumn is high school and college weekend football games, tailgating, woolen sweaters and blue jeans, Halloween, elections and finally Thanksgiving Day. Thanksgiving Day seems to be the epitome of the season, decorated with all of its symbols: autumn leaves, apples and nuts, pumpkins, and pouring from the cornucopia, the results of a bountiful harvest. If that sugar maple down the street from my house begins the season, Thanksgiving Day seems to be the quintessential celebration of it, and its end. The day after “turkey day” is Black Friday, the first real shopping day of the Christmas season.

My entries this month, therefore, will be in celebration of my favorite season. I encourage you to join in with your own efforts as well. If you send them, I will post. Until then, get out and enjoy the season.

The Leaving

The Leaving
Christopher Bogart



There is a sadness certain in the leaving.

In the falling,
Sad flight begins
As slow, mournful drift

Down.


It is there
I sit
on cold, damp ground


Below.


I speak
in somber distant sounds,

While through the bright
And leaving drift

I sift
Through sad stories
of the deaths
of petty princes
and of dying kings.