Poems for Fall

From the Sonnets of Antonio Vivaldi

Autumn (Concerto No. 3 in F major)

Allegro

The peasant celebrates by dancing and singing
The pleasure of the rich harvest,
And full of Bacchus liquor
They end their rejoicings with a sleep.

Adagio molto

Each peasant ceases his dance and song.
The mild air gives pleasure,And the season invites many
To enjoy a sweet slumber.

Allegro

The hunters, at the break of dawn, go to the hunt.
With horns, guns, and dogs they are off,
The beast flees, and they follow its trail.
Already fearful and exhausted by the great noise,
Of guns and dogs, and wounded,
The exhausted beast tries to flee, but dies.

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Poem from Michigan Writers

Autumn: Self-Portrait as Waterfowl
By Jennifer Yeatts

See the staunch mergansers: how they rush
headlong into Superior’s frothy surf,
not looking back or waiting for their brood
to follow. September’s moods don’t pause
for nerves, and open water calls swimmers
out to dive for their dinner, to learn
by trying, by feeling fresh the lake’s careen
across their feathered faces. The same,
I think, for falling leaves, for breezes crisp
and skies cerulean before we’re ready
to tuck away our toes in socks and lean
into the shift. The shift comes when it comes
and we don’t get to pause. We’re tugged, stumbling,
exhilarated. We protest, and then, we rest.

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Poem from Michigan Writers

Autumn 
By Teresa Scollon

It’s autumn now, Antonio,
and so far, a gentle one, with smooth blue
skies. Night claims a larger portion
of each day, and we sleep deeply
in the delicious cool. The trees
begin to admit that the season is done.
And I too, Antonio, am an old leaf,
raggedy and worn, but blazing
with color. Color, it turns out,
I always wore under the busy-ness.
I long to gather my old friends
about me, so we can repeat
our stories, our travels, and laugh
at ourselves, and understand.

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Poem from Michigan Writers

The Great Noise—Autumn Now
Anne-Marie Oomen

Inspired by Vivaldi’s phrase “exhausted by the great noise”

Here, a raucous answer
to the year’s great questions
written in a curious
and branching cursive,
the sentences revealed
in limbs abandoned by leaves,
in lakes keening with waves..
See, the poem that is Being,
being written on the sky
in the characters of twigs,
their secrets bared
with the great noise
of their own abandonment,
the loss of all that was meant.