Spring, Autumn — & Something New for the Supernatural Underground

Those of you who visit me on my blog will know the tagline tells you that I am a "novelist, poet, interviewer and lover of story." 

Wordsworth's "Daffodils", a favourite spring poem

 

 

The main focus of my posts here on the Supernatural Underground is as a novelist, but I have also done a couple of interviews now, with Juliet Marillier last month, here, and Beth-Anne Miller a while back, here. And on 1 August I talked about The Awesomeness of Story... So all bases covered, right — but no, hold on a minute, there's something from that tagline list that hasn't yet been covered on the Supernatural Underground.

Did you spot it, too? That's right, I realized that I hadn't yet done a poetry post. And since I was also reflecting on the slight disconnect of it being spring here in the southern hemisphere, where I'm writing this, while those reading it in the northern half of the world are just stepping into autumn — I thought. what better than sharing two poems, one for spring, and one for autumn...

For spring: 

The Begonias

Magnolia stellata

Mal pushes
each seedling down,
grime lining
the cracks in her hands,
eyes narrowed
against the sun's
low angle.  Usually
she crams her hair up
beneath an old hat—the floppy kind
that cricketers wear—
but today the hat is perched
amongst magnolia stellata
and Mal's hair
is a fraying rope
that follows the curve
of her spine, swinging
to every movement
of bend forward, sit back,
as she pauses, wiping
dirt across her face.  "I thought
you didn't like begonias,"
I say.  Mal shrugs.
"Mum always planted them here.
I thought I might as well …"
She seizes the hat,
pulls it low
across her eyes.

© Helen Lowe

Published in moments in the whirlwind, Ed. Barbara Strang, New Zealand Poetry Society, 2009

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For autumn:

First snowfall

Autumn

Aaaah, autumn,
the dying season of the year,
when shadows turn to grape,
chilled by the first, faint curl of mist
around the edges of the days,
foreshortened into clear, green twilights
as night shifts from summer's deep velvet
to frosty black, the stars glow colder,
more distant, the leaves turn
gold, bronze, crimson, scarlet,

Turning colors

bravura counterpoint to cooling days –
then fall in deep, rustling drifts
beneath austere branches, the earth
dark beneath their shadow, filled
with pale secrets, bulbs lying in
wait for spring's warm ambush
to burst out upon the world,
while far above their blind heads
smoke smudges the evening air,
breath hanging in the stillness
as feet stamp crisply, briskly,
knowing winter is almost here.



© Helen Lowe

Commended, Yellow Moon Competition (18: August 2005); Published Yellow Moon 18, Summer 2006

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So how about you, Supernatural Undergrounders: do you have a favourite seasonal poem?  Or simply a favourite poem? Let me know with a comment. :)