Quotes like leaf of yellow red that...

leaf of yellow red
that yesteryear autumn bled
- I found and reread

haiku by Peter S. Quinn
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Seasonable Retour-Knell

SEASONABLE RETOUR KNELL
Variations on a theme...
SEASONABLE ROUND ROBIN ROLE REVERSALS

Author notes

A mirrored Retourne may not only be read either from first line to last or from last to first as seen in the mirrors, but also by inverting the first and second phrase of each line, either rhyming AAAA or ABAB for each verse. thus the number of variations could be multiplied several times.- two variations on the theme have been included here but could have been extended as in SEASONABLE ROUND ROBIN ROLE REVERSALS robi03_0069_robi03_0000

In respect of SEASONABLE ROUND ROBIN ROLE REVERSALS
This composition has sought to explore linguistic potential. Notes and the initial version are placed before rather than after the poem.
Six variations on a theme have been selected out of a significant number of mathematical possibilities using THE SAME TEXT and a reverse mirror for each version. Mirrors repeat the seasons with the lines in reverse order.

For the second roll the first four syllables of each line are reversed, and sense is retained both in the normal order of seasons and the reversed order as well... The 3rd and 4th variations offer ABAB rhyme schemes retaining the original text. The 5th and 6th variations modify the text into rhyming couplets.

Given the linguistical structure of this symphonic composition the score could be read in inversing each and every line and each and every hemistitch. There are minor punctuation differences between versions.

One could probably attain sonnet status for each of the four seasons and through partioning in 3 groups of 4 syllables extend the possibilites ad vitam.

Seasonable Round Robin Roll Reversals
robi03_0069_robi03_0000 QXX_DNZ
Seasonable Retour-Knell
robi03_0070_robi03_0069 QXX_NXX
26 March 1975 rewritten 20070123
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For previous version see below
_______________________________________
SPRING SUMMER

Life is at ease Young lovers long
Land under plough; To hold their dear;
Whispering trees, Dewdrops among,
Answering cow. Bold, know no fear.

Blossom, the bees, Life full of song,
Burgeoning bough; Cloudless and clear;
Soft-scented breeze, Days fair and long,
Spring warms life now. Summer sends cheer.

AUTUMN WINTER

Each leaf decays, Harvested sheaves
Each life must bow; And honeyed hives;
Our salad days Trees stripped of leaves,
Are ending now. Jack Frost has knives.

Fruit heavy lays Time, Prince of thieves,
Bending the bough, - Onward he drives,

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Autumn-Spirit.

Now the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the Earth, bedecked with symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign,
Makes us think about the season of the flowers with a sigh,
When life was lush in every tree-love laughed in every eye,
Whilst her lineaments of beauty were imprinted on the sod,
When the Spring with Winter wrestled, on that gala-day of God!
But the Spring is dead and buried, and the Summer's vital fire,
Like a heap of sullen embers, smoulders ready to expire;
For the Autumn-Spirit, reigning over mountain, vale and plain,
Robes the Earth in royal symbols emblematic of his reign!

Hark! a singing train of seraphim doth o'er its surface pass!
Mark! their flowing robes of flame have singed the green and speary grass!
Witness! every tender blade appeareth tipped and tinged with brown,
And the hedge is hemmed with rose-leaves, which their wings have shaken down,
Though the hind but hears the whirring of ten thousand pinions beat,
Sees a cloud of birds of passage trail its shadow by his feet,
For the pageantry of Heaven hath escaped his optics dim,
And he sees but birds of passage in the God-sent seraphim,
While the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the Earth is robed in symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign!

While his tread is on the mountain, through the valley and the plain,
Like some Fate-commissioned angel, Desolation tracks his train,
And the glory of the Summer and the beauty of the Spring
Form a carpet for his feet, a fading, weird, and worn-out thing!
And his wings distil an odour, as of corpses in perfume,
Warbled through his ghastly whispers sound the sighs of buried bloom,
And his accents are dim echoes from the hollow caves of Death,
And the wailing woods are withered by his cold and crisping breath,
For the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the Earth is robed in symbols of the Autumn-spirit's reign!

Where the Poet loves to saunter in some unfrequented nook,
Or to sit and learn the language of the ever-babbling brook,
While its glassy surface mirrors the deep gulf of Heaven's blue,
Where the sunny cloud-ships, sailing, point to vapour lands in view,
There the river's creeks are mantled with red leaves and yellow foam,
And its broken banks are scattered with dead branches dipped in loam,
And a wail of desolation through the fading forest hums,
And the Winds grow chill by thinking of the Winter ere it comes,
While the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the Earth is robed in symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign!

Where the lily of the valley and the violet of the copse
Looked like Thoughts incorporated-like embodied youthful Hopes!
Where the golden-tubëd honeysuckle's pipes were interwound
With the ruddy-tinted roses breathing scented music round,
In the field or the forest, by the verdure-sheltered rills,
Where, in green and golden garments, Summer sate among the hills,

[...] Read more

poem by William Billington
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Pirouetting Autumn

The tree blushed - a rude blast of air
Betrayed a shapely bough.
My saddened heart aware
That Nature's clock was chiming,
I froze upon the twelfth
Clanging tone, caught alone,
Staring at a creaking door -
Left ajar for dancing, coloured Autumn,
Pirouetting in her leaves,
While agitated summer creatures
Backed away resignedly,
Sighing in protracted breves.
I turned; gave company;
We stood together, watching
Summer slowly blow away.

[...] Read more

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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A Take on Red

Red for blood –
Pumping out a life;
Paling in a death;
Blushing in a feminine face –
Flushing out her puberty;
Stain a presage for the mother ready.

And red, a flag of hatred in the eye –
The brutal other side –
Blood-release of war;
The sundered heart!

But then the red of simple dress
To give a beauty all she needs –
And flaming hair
And flimsy lace of underwear
And passion in the wanton heart
And dreams of crimson stockinged legs apart –

The rawness in the fantasy that
Only red can be.

And I? To only seek for Autumn
Bleeding in her many hues
Of red and other sister colours –
Those of tiring summer;
The fall of evening chill,
To wake with mist of morn,
Until cerise of dawn
Presents another day.

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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1777

The Trumpet-Vine Arbour

The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open,
And the clangour of brass beats against the hot sunlight.
They bray and blare at the burning sky.
Red! Red! Coarse notes of red,
Trumpeted at the blue sky.
In long streaks of sound, molten metal,
The vine declares itself.
Clang! -- from its red and yellow trumpets.
Clang! -- from its long, nasal trumpets,
Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise.

I sit in the cool arbour, in a green-and-gold twilight.
It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets,
I only know that they are red and open,
And that the sun above the arbour shakes with heat.
My quill is newly mended,
And makes fine-drawn lines with its point.
Down the long, white paper it makes little lines,
Just lines -- up -- down -- criss-cross.
My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill;
It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen.
My hand marches to a squeaky tune,
It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes.
My pen and the trumpet-flowers,
And Washington's armies away over the smoke-tree to the Southwest.
'Yankee Doodle,' my Darling! It is you against the British,
Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George.
What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager.
Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for.
Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target!
Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the house-top
Through Father's spy-glass.
The red city, and the blue, bright water,
And puffs of smoke which you made.
Twenty miles away,
Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck,
But the smoke was white -- white!
To-day the trumpet-flowers are red -- red --
And I cannot see you fighting,
But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada,
And Myra sings 'Yankee Doodle' at her milking.
The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine,
And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air.

[...] Read more

poem by Amy Lowell
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Autumn Swing

Back to the back
Undo and tracking our footprints
Printed on the sand of time
Reached and stopped at one point
The beginning of earliest thing
Our first meet and Hello greet

Hello world
We keen seed a plant
Sprout the moment, the lesson start
Water my soul you bring me light
With you the life we ride
Deep in core, inside
Grows to root in heart
Hello world
It's been many years we had
But seems like yesterday we been here
The wind still calm, loyal visit our garden
Hope all season life still evergreen not frozen

Time goes fast like a smoke
Thick, thin, disappear
We smile we cry, branching emotion in vessels
Patiently we waiting to smell the scent of happy
Life not easy but we learn new lesson daily
Branches becomes stronger day by day
Stronger construct history today
Dig deep by root, taller, up by shoot
Life so mystery but can be understood

Green leaf symbols of living
Each one, each day we been talking
One day we gained or leaving
Day by day, Oh World
Who thought we passed years
We changed by now and we still
To be now a shady tree
Against the storm or a safe home
The best shelter of nightingale
And we learn how to sing beautiful tale
At least apples ripen accompany

Time running just like a smoke
Dense, smear, disappear
Now, here, today will be another memory
Seasons of life, chapter of our story
Green leaf will change to yellow or brown glory
Feel blue, past leave yellow history
Time so fast, if wrong, say my sorry

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poem by Unwritten Soul
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I Discover The World In India

red vermillion streaked hair
a red wattled lapwing
orange, same time each day, sunrises and sunsets
yellow and black taxi colours, yellow temple flags, bright yellow confectionery shops, yellow bright fragrant perfume shops
green lush city pot plants, green lush country side
light blue warm skies, light blue cool cabs
indigo blue dupattas, turbans
navy blue trains, absence of starchy navy blue suits
sexy, pink, curved, massive majestic palaces, pink film posters
gold and glass chhum chhummy bangles
one purple TV happily watched by hundreds of labourers, purple crow sounds
gold chhum chhummy payals
white nehru jackets, pyjamas and kurtas, white cracking paint on grand old victorian buildings, white floor seating
_______
I discover

white clear eyes, white teeth behind white greetings
gold namastes
purple glee at fairs, purple glee when trying new technology and at receiving smallest of gifts
gold helping hands
many pink smiles
navy blue restful sleep on pavements, on roof terraces
indigo blue uniforms on giving railway porters
light blue singing on pavements, in big halls
limitless sincere green hospitality
endless yellow courtesy and welcomes
orange early morning school uniforms and school bags
an orange headed minla
red eyed hard working farmers and labourers
_______
the world

red rose petals in idol garlands, red rose petals at feet of idols
orange marigolds and sadhus, orange sacred cows
yellow rose petals in idol garlands, at feet of idols
a yellow eurasian golden eriole
green mango leaf awnings at entrances
light blue shiny clothes for deities, light blue ganges, light blue yamuna, light blue ceremonies
indigo blue in ancient temple and church paintings, indigo blue in contemporary art , indigo blue art and artists everywhere
navy blue backdropp in Shree Nathji's haveli
pink garlands on shiv lings, pink stained rice in flower formations on pooja tables
gold crowns for goddesses and gods
purple checks on worship lungis
gold ornaments on idols in gold temples, gold borders on worship saris
white churches, brahmins clad in white, stirring orators in white, ancient white stone sculptures and carvings
_____
in India

white barfi, white lassi, white raw and crunchy radishes
gold basundi, gold masala dosas, gold pani puris

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poem by Bhupen Thakker
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New Krishna

white stillness pure gold purple wonder gold strength pink joy
pink infinity navy blue now strong indigo blue light blue fountain
the green first reason endless yellow compassionate orange
royal red

single red free orange free yellow
green depth as clear as crystal all attractive light blue
strong indigo blue strong navy blue pink wishes gold compassion
compassionate purple gold of golds of creativity

she maybe dying
she is thirty one
white weeps white seeps into golden
memories of purple
lectures
navy blue pink gold
parties, poetry evenings and art
openings
with indigo blue
music
and beautfully spoken light blue
words
to green acts
of courage
to green acts of love
yellow self improvement classes
orange sex sessions and marriages
and to memories of
red plush homes

red inspirer orange giver yellow help dazzling green
light blue of the delicate with indigo blue eyes navy blue good
with pink kind eyes golden hair
golden complexion purple complexion
gold warmth of white space

a sixty year old man with a beautiful four year old boy
enter the room
“look in my mouth, look in my mouth, look in my mouth”

white of whites
gold truth purple mentor funny gold pink friend of children
navy blue of nature indigo blue knowledge light blue song of nature
green creation yellow in senses orange guide red way

the man says
royal red
the boy sits on the ground
endless orange
the boy touches the woman

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poem by Bhupen Thakker
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Autumn...Will Never Be The Same

FOR: J.L. With Love

It was a cool, July, and it was dusk.
The gentle winds that blew,
brushed the Autumn of your hair.

And a mist, as like in Autumn, touch
your face, as I stood still.

I could not help but wonder, as in Autumn,
are the bees yet in their hive? Snuggled
closely, in their Autumn winter bed.?

An Autumn sun, hid behind the clouds above.
It knew not of this July, only of Autumn, in the air.
It knew of flowers drooping, their brightness,
now fading and curled. It knew of falling leaves,
and colors still so bright. A lone tree against a colored
sky, seemed naked in this July. With all of
this, and some to go, it must be Autumn...Autumn...
Autumn, for this I know.

What of the woman, with the hair of Autumn?
Her eyes of Autumn color and colored clothes
the same. It can not be July for
Autumn is abound.

Autumns every where. Circling sparrows in sky
above, swoop down, in hunt, for the final seeds
of Autumn. How could this be July,
or has the sparrows lost their way?

Surely, this is Autumn, for the chill is in they air.
And, isn't that an Autumn grass, below that
old oak tree? As the gentle Autumn winds,
carry silence for the day.

Now the mist of Autumn, are falling drops of rain.
No, not a shower in July, but an Autumn day,
now cast in gloom, against a steel gray sky.

Autumn, shall never be the same, since
that Autumn day in mid July.

poem by Joe Fazio
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Days Like This...Remind Me Of You