Pale Autumn Moon…
Withering Face
Lonely Maiden
Alienation.
Burning stove
Warmth gently comforts
The snowy day
Silence
Creeping up stealthily
Surrounds everything
The effect of long sleep
Cold lullabies
Trees dreaming of
Reconciliation
Old companions
Cocoon in
Isolation
Earth and Sky
Wrapping up in the one
Case of mystic fog
Little toads hopping
Voice of Northern spring peeper
Declares on trumpet
Joys of spring are air bubbles
Summer is a short-lived dream
Numerous black boughs
Embedded with flakes of snow
Sparkling by moonlight
Like a group of the hermits
Holding up many lanterns
Tiny deeds of kindness
Eliminating darkness
Of this nasty world.
Summer’s Day!
Once upon a beautiful day, I happened to read Shakespeare’s sonnet, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” The sonnet opens up,
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May”
Summer is the season to leisure around exuberantly. For being the divine successor of spring, the legitimate break between the colorful, bright and lovely spring and the gray, melancholic and barren autumn, it’s the time for the fruits to be ripened fully, for the crickets to sing subtly and the stars to shine more vividly but not to suppress the delicate flickering light of the fireflies hanging around the mighty darkness of the summer’s night.
Right from the beginning of this world until now, the summer season has a special significance for the poets, writers and dramatists in their writings. Like the famous poet John Keats once said,
“I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three
summer days…three such days with you I could fill with
more delight than fifty common years could ever contain”.
Keats compared the seasons of nature with the life cycle of Man. According to him,
“Four seasons fill the measure of the year; There are the four seasons
in the mind of man”
He said about Summer,
“He has his Summer, when luxuriously Spring’s honeyed cud
of youthful thought he loves to ruminate, and by such dreaming
high is nearest unto heaven”
He wrote very beautifully,
“Fast fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves”.
For me, summer is a season to enjoy my cold juices, the lovely sunset and the beautiful sound of the summer rain. The starry sky looks amazingly different as compared to the foggy cold night of gloomy winter.
“Through buried paths, where sleepy
twilight dreams the summer time away.”
(John Keats).
Maryam Qureshi is a poet and columnist. Her work has appeared in online and print journals published by Prolific Press Inc. She is also working as managing editor and columnist for The Elixir Magazine.
Follow her on Twitter: @MiryamHussein
Contact by email: maryquresh@gmail.com
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