SEPTEMBER
30 September · Autumn Rain · D.H. Lawrence
In this poem, D.H. Lawrence is at once speaking of autumn weather and the tragedy of warfare. The poem surprises us by introducing fallen men, but locks the two sets of images, of weather and war, together through its extraordinary tight patterns of rhymes, which echo across the poem.
Autumn Rain
The plane leaves
fall black and wet
on the lawn;
the cloud sheaves
in heaven’s fields set
droop and are drawn
in falling seeds of rain;
the seed of heaven
on my face
falling – I hear again
like echoes even
that softly pace
heaven’s muffled floor,
the winds that tread
out all the grain
of tears, the store
harvested
in the sheaves of pain
caught up aloft:
the sheaves of dead
men that are slain
now winnowed soft
on the floor of heaven;
manna invisible
of all the pain
here to us given;
finely divisible falling as rain.
…
“Autumn Rain” is not one of D.H. Lawrence’s most famous poems, but it shows his delicate control of poetic syntax and his inventiveness with imagery.
The poem was first published in the magazine The Egoist in February 1917, but penned the previous autumn. The First World War was raging, and this may well lurk behind the reference to “dead / men that are slain” and the unusual description of the skies as “heaven’s fields” – perhaps summoning the Elysian Fields, the abode of the dead in Greek mythology which was reserved for heroes who nobly died in battle.
The short lines and three-line stanzas of Autumn Rain run on – the whole poem is one meandering sentence – and give the vague impression of falling raindrops on the page. The rhymes are uneven, although they begin more regular, with leaves/wet/lawn and sheaves/set/drawn and so on. Throughout, the emphasis is on falling, a word which, as “fall” or “falling”, comes at us four times in this short poem.
The image of the rain is complex: we begin with the falling leaves of the plane tree (it is autumn, after all) foreshadowing the falling of the droplets of rain; the rain itself is depicted in earthy terms, as “seeds” falling from heaven (heaven itself has “fields”, remember), and then as tears (“the grain / of tears”), and then as “sheaves of dead / men that are slain”. (Note that Lawrence writes “men that” rather than the expected “men who”: the men have been reduced to things, bodies that have been slain.) The bodies of those dead men, probably those killed in battle, are refined or “winnowed soft” in heaven, with the men being almost reincarnated as the falling raindrops, those “seeds” of heaven.
The image portrayed is extremely clever, perhaps too clever for its own good, and risks being overly convoluted. Nevertheless, Autumn rain is a fine poem, even if it tries to do too much with its central image. It hints at the dead of the Great War without directly becoming a “war poem”. It is grounded in nature yet one which is open to the numinous or transcendent. Lawrence’s poetry appeared in the earliest imagist anthologies earlier on in the First World War, and in Autumn Rain we see an imagistic eye for detail.
28 September · from Meditation XVII · John Donne
In September 1735, Robert Walpole, who is considered the first Prime Minister of Great Britain, took up residence in 10 Downing Street – a town house in central London which, to this day, is the official residence of the British Prime Minister. Edward Heath, who was the British Prime Minister from 1970–1974, quoted these famous (prose) lines by John Donne and added, “Today no island is an island. That applies as much to the price of bread as it does to political influence.”
No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
John Donne’s “Meditation 17” comes from his 1623 work Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions. It analyses human interconnectedness and mortality, using the sound of a church bell to signify a funeral. Donne employs powerful metaphorical language, such as equating humanity to a continent and death as a translation. He also argues that no individual is an island and every death diminishes the collective whole. The passage encourages empathy, reflection on one’s own mortality, and finding spiritual security in God.
Where Donne uses the metaphor of a continent to convey that every person is a part of the greater whole of humanity, he implies that the death of one person is akin to a piece of land being eroded, lessening the entire continent.
The bell serves as a reminder of one’s own mortality, prompting introspection and an understanding of shared human suffering. Donne suggests that affliction can be a “treasure” that, when understood, can be used to gain a better perspective on life and faith.
Death is presented not as an end but as a “translation” into a different, “better language,” with God using various means like sickness or war to accomplish this.
And spiritual unity is a central element and theme. The concept of the Church as universal underscores the spiritual unity of humanity, where the actions and experiences of one person impact everyone.
24 September · An Old Woman of the Roads · Padraic Colum
Padraic Colum was a celebrated Irish poet and playwright of the twentieth century. He corresponded with many great poets, including W.B. Yeats, and was a lifelong friend of the novelist James Joyce. This poem, told from the point of view of a homeless woman, asks us to appreciate the material things we take for granted – a clock, a hearth, and, above all, a roof above our heads.
O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped up sods upon the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!
….
To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!
….
I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!
….
I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed and loth to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!
….
Och! But I’m weary of mist and dark,
And roads where there’s never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!
….
And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house – a house of my own –
Out of the wind’s and the rain’s way.
The poem explores the longing for a simple and comfortable life, set against the harsh reality of poverty and homelessness. The speaker, an old woman, dreams of a home with a warm fire, a clock, and a few precious possessions. She clearly longs for a sense of security and belonging, but instead is faced with darkness and uncertainty.
The language is simple and the imagery clear; the poem captures the desperation and loneliness of the speaker. The contrast between the speaker’s dream and her current situation highlights the harsh reality of her life. The poetry reflects the social and economic conditions of the time, where many people lived in poverty and destitution and were forced to dream of a better life.
The poem is essentially a lament from the perspective of an elderly, homeless woman who dreams of owning a small cottage, a cosy fire with stacked turf, and simple domestic comforts like a clock and china. The poem contrasts her harsh, wandering reality of “mist and dark” and the “crying wind”, and the universal desire for security, particularly resonating with the historical context of land ownership in Ireland. The woman’s deep Catholic faith provides her with strength, and the poem ultimately highlights the dignity and endurance of the Irish spirit in the face of hardship.
23 September · Shut Not Your Doors to Me, Proud Libraries · Walt Whitman
This poem was written by Whitman, one of the most celebrated of American poets, not long after the American Civil War and the assassination of President Lincoln in 1865. The book in this poem is a very strange one – its words are entirely unimportant and yet it seems to be alive! It is, perhaps, a metaphor for life itself and the knowledge we can receive just by living life joyfully.
Shut not your doors to me proud libraries,
For that which was lacking among you all, yet needed most, I bring;
A book I have made for you dear sake, O soldiers,
And for you, O soul of man, and you, love of comrades;
The words of my book nothing, the life of it everything;
A book separate, not link’d with the rest, nor felt by the intellect;
But you will feel every word, O Libertad! arm’d Libertad!
It shall pass by the intellect to swim the sea, the air,
With joy with you, O soul of man.
Whitman argues that his war-inspired poetry possesses a unique emotional truth that is absent from traditional libraries. The poem is interpreted as a plea to libraries to accept his work (which he contends brings a necessary element they lack).
Whitman was influenced by his experience as a volunteer nurse during the Civil War, and is presented as being for soldiers and humanity.
A key idea is the primacy of lived experience and emotion over intellectual understanding, suggesting the poem’s value is in the raw experience it conveys. It is intended to be deeply felt by the reader. Whitman believes readers will connect with freedom and the human spirit on an emotional level. The poem itself is considered a defence of Whitman’s free verse style and a challenge to conventional literature, highlighting the importance of emotionally rich expression.
22 September · Now May Every Living Thing
With over 370 million followers worldwide, Buddhism is one of the world’s major religions, and is centred on the teachings of Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, who embarked on a quest for enlightenment around the sixth century BC. He is thought to have written the simple blessing found below. While there are many different forms of Buddhism, and specific teachings vary accordingly, there are some important tenets which are shared between them all: a belief in pacifism and the importance of living a non-violent life; the notion that nothing is permanent or fixed, and that change is always possible; and an emphasis on the importance of meditation and self-development in order to reach a state of enlightenment, known as nirvana.
Now may every living thing, young or old, weak or strong, living near or far, known or unknown, living or departed or yet unborn, may every living thing be full of bliss.
20 September · The Iroquois Prayer
This prayer of thanks is a tradition passed on by the Iroquois, a confederacy of Native American tribes who lived in upstate New York and the area surrounding the Great Lakes before the advent of the modern United States. There are still Iroquois communities living in Canada and America.
Also known as the Iroquois Thanksgiving Address, it is a recitation of gratitude for the natural world and the interconnectedness of all things. It refers to every aspect of creation, from the earth and water to the plants, animals, and the Great Spirit. It acknowledges the profound relationship between humans and the natural world, emphasising reciprocity and stewardship.
The Iroquois Prayer
We return thanks to our mother, the earth, which sustains us.
We return thanks to the rivers and streams, which supply us with water.
We return thanks to all herbs, which furnish medicines for the cure of our diseases.
We return thanks to the corn, and to her sisters, the beans and squash, which give us life. We return thanks to the bushes and trees, which provide us with fruit.
We return thanks to the wind which, moving the air, has banished diseases.
We return thanks to the moon and the stars, which have given us their light when the sun was gone.
We return thanks to our grandfather He-no, who has given to us his rain.
We return thanks to the sun, that he has looked upon the earth with a beneficent eye. Lastly, we return thanks to the Great Spirit, in whom is embodied all goodness, and who directs all things for the good of his children.
17 September · from Annus Mirabilis · John Dryden
John Dryden was the very first Poet Laureate of Great Britain, and he is considered to be one of the finest poets of Restoration England, the period following Charles II’s return to the throne in 1660. Annus Mirabilis is a Latin phrase meaning “wonderful year” or “year of miracles”, although the year Dryden writes of – 1666 – was marked by disasters throughout. The miracle, for Dryden, is that the world didn’t end altogether, given that the date contained “666”, the satanic “number of the beast”. This extract recounts the tragedy of what became known as the Great Fire of London.
Extracts from Annus Mirabilis
Such was the Rise of this prodigious fire,
Which, in mean Buildings first obscurely bred,
From thence did soon to open Streets aspire,
And straight to Palaces and Temples spread.
….
The diligence of Trades and noiseful Gain,
And luxury, more late, asleep were laid:
All was the night’s, and in her silent reign
No sound the rest of Nature did invade.
….
In this deep quiet, from what source unknown,
Those seeds of Fire their fatal Birth disclose;
And first, few scatt’ring Sparks about were blown,
Big with the flames that to our Ruin rose.
….
Then in some close-pent Room it crept along,
And, smould’ring as it went, in silence fed;
Till th’ infant Monster, with devouring strong,
Walk’d boldly upright with exalted head.
….
Now like some rich or mighty Murderer,
Too great for Prison, which he breaks with Gold,
Who fresher for new Mischiefs does appear
And dares the World to tax him with the old:
….
So ’scapes th’ insulting Fire his narrow Jail,
And makes small outlets into open air:
There the fierce Winds his tender Force assail,
And beat him downward to his first repair.
….
The Winds, like crafty Courtesans, withheld
His Flames from burning, but to blow them more:
And every fresh attempt he is repell’d
With faint Denials, weaker than before.
….
And now no longer letted of his Prey,
He leaps up at it with enrag’d desire:
O’erlooks the Neighbours with a wide survey,
And nods at every House his threat’ning Fire.
15 September · Pleasant Sounds · John Clare
It might be said that many of the great nature poets are in some respects compilers of lists – cataloguers of flowers and trees and animals. Perhaps something of the sort crossed Clare’s mind when he sat down to write “Pleasant Sounds”, which is a poem in the form of a list of autumnal images which cleverly captures a sense of the sound of nature.
Pleasant Sounds
The rustling of leaves under the feet in woods and under hedges;
The crumping of cat-ice and snow down wood-rides, narrow lanes, and every street causeway;
Rustling through a wood or rather rushing, while the wind halloos in the oak-toop like thunder;
The rustle of birds’ wings startled from their nests or flying unseen into the bushes;
The whizzing of larger birds overhead in a wood, such as crows, puddocks, buzzards;
The trample of robins and woodlarks on the brown leaves, and the patter of squirrels on the green moss;
The fall of an acorn on the ground, the pattering of nuts on the hazel branches as they fall from ripeness;
The flirt of the groundlark’s wing from the stubbles – how sweet such pictures on dewy mornings, when the dew flashes from its brown feathers.
12 September · The Hurt Boy and the Birds · John Agard
This poem takes bullying as its subject. Unable to talk to humans, the boy in this poem finds strength and inspiration through talking to birds.
The Hurt Boy and the Birds
The hurt boy talked to the birds
and fed them the crumbs of his heart.
….
It was not easy to find the words
for secrets he hid under his skin.
The hurt boy spoke of a bully’s fist
that made his face a bruised moon –
his spectacles stamped to ruin.
….
It was not easy to find the words
for things that nightly hissed
as if his pillow was a hideaway for creepy-crawlies –
the note sent to the girl he fancied
held high in mockery.
….
But the hurt boy talked to the birds
And their feathers gave him welcome –
….
Their wings taught him new ways to become.
10 September · Symphony in Yellow · Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde is best known for his acerbically witty plays, philosophical essays, and gently heartbreaking short stories, but he was also an accomplished poet. In this short piece from 1889 he describes an autumnal view from London’s Embankment in which common features of the urban landscape – a bus, a barge, industrial smog – are reimagined as part of a natural world of butterflies and midges. The title may refer to music, but the effect of Wilde’s verse, full of movement, atmosphere, and vibrant colour seems to be more indebted to the paintings by his Impressionist contemporaries.
Symphony in Yellow
An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.
…
Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.
…
The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
9 September · Take a Poem · James Carter
Since earliest times, poetry was celebrated as a great gift of memory; the ancient Greeks even invoked the goddess Mnemosyne, meaning “memory”, at the start of their poems. We usually write words down or else we store them in our computers, but sometimes it is good to memorise a poem; that way, we truly own it, and can carry its words with us always.
Take a Poem
Why not take a poem
wherever you go?
pop it in your pocket
nobody will know
….
Take it to your classroom
stick it on the wall
tell them all about it
read it in the hall
….
Take it to the bathroom
tuck it up in bed
take the time to learn it
keep it in your head
….
Take it for a day trip
take it on a train
fold it as a hat
when it starts to rain
….
Take it to a river
fold it as a boat
pop it in the water
hope that it will float
….
Take it to a hilltop
fold it as a plane
throw it up skywards
time and time again
….
Take it to a post box
send it anywhere
out into the world with
tender
loving
care
In previous generations it was common to learn reams of verse and, today, there is an appetite to resurrect this practice. The process confers educational advantages – an enhanced vocabulary, improved retention of knowledge, familiarity with the canon – but there are other benefits, more lasting, more significant and more delightful, to learning poetry.
These advantages were summarised impeccably by literary critic John Walsh, who likened learning poems by heart to “having your own private internal iPoems library”, adding, “It’s about owning someone else’s words, but making them part of your life, your thoughts, and your heart.”
To store up a memory bank of poems is to build up your own unique library for life. The verses are your personal armoury against the slings and arrows of life – be they someone’s cruelty, illness, or even just an irritatingly delayed train. Survivors of traumatic events, such as the hostage Terry Waite, recall reciting poetry learned by heart during their darkest hours, and when memory fades in the elderly, it is often the rhymes learned as children that are retained longest.
6 September · Reading the Classics · Brian Patten
A bedtime story, if well told, can last a lifetime or longer. Brian Patten’s poem pays homage to great works of children’s literature that continue to give, and to live a life of their own.
Reading the Classics
The Secret Garden will never age;
The tangled undergrowth remains as fresh
As when the author put down her pen.
Its mysteries are as poignant now as then.
….
Though Time’s a thief it cannot thieve
One page from the world of make-believe.
….
On the track the Railway Children wait;
Alice still goes back and forth through the glass;
In Tom’s Midnight Garden Time unfurls,
And children still discover secret worlds.
….
At the Gates of Dawn Pan plays his pipes;
Mole and Ratty still float in awe downstream.
The weasels watch, hidden in the grass.
None cares how quickly human years pass.
….
Though Time’s a thief it cannot thieve
One page from the world of make-believe.
3 September · Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 · William Wordsworth
This poem describes London and the River Thames, viewed from Westminster Bridge in the early morning. Wordsworth was travelling from Calais with his sister Dorothy at the time, and in her journal, Dorothy wrote this of the sight: “Yet the sun shone so brightly with such a pure light that there was even something like the purity of one of nature’s own grand Spectacles.”
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! The very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
2 September · But I Can’t · W.H. Auden
Written in 1940, this poem expresses the uncertainties of everyday life in wartime. Not only is the future unknown, but the reasoning behind the war seems as uncertain as the source of the wind. The poem takes the unusual form of a villanelle – a poem formed of five tercets followed by a final quatrain, with two rhymes and two refrains.
But I Can’t
Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
….
If we would weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
….
There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.
….
The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reason why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
….
Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
….
Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.
1 September · Aeroplanes · Herbert Read
On 1 September 1939, Germany invaded Poland. The Allied Powers had vowed to help Poland if it was attacked, and so, two days later, Britain, France, and members of the Commonwealth declared war on Germany, marking the beginning of World War Two. The war would last for almost exactly six years, and ended on 2 September 1945. Herbert Read’s interests in nature and war meet in this poem which was first published in 1966.
Aeroplanes
A dragonfly
in a flecked grey sky.
..
Its silvered planes
break the wide and still
harmony of space.
..
Around it shells
flash
their fumes
burgeoning to blooms
smoke-lilies that float
along the sky.
..
Among them darts
a dragonfly.
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