Arts & Culture

Poetic License

By Liam Woodworth-Cook

Autumn has always been one of my favorite times to write. The swinging shift of seasons is upon us, stark imagery surrounds, and the spirits hang in the air. I remember being in middle school and reading an Emily Dickinson poem about leaves. There is much color and taste in fall. It also brings a sadness that is also inherit to poetry as we begin to bundle up for winter. I find the crisping air excellent for reflection. I’m biased that fall is spectacular; my birthday falls in this month and Halloween has been my favorite holiday for years. Prepare my peers and teachers, the light will go quietly as we ourselves curl into another Maine winter. It depends on us if we go gently.

Once again, if you have any poetry or even a short piece of prose, please email me at liammwoodworthcook@smccme.edu. Featured here is a poem from The Beacon’s own managing editor Rebecca Dow, myself, and several seasonal haikus from the legendary Japanese poet, Basho (1644-94) .

Leaves
By Rebecca Dow

Every ray who hints her warmth through shapely green –
That which sways as delicate as the gentle breeze –
Cures and ages all that breathe; and yet those leaves,
To a brittle flake, fall from old desolate trees.

And Sun comes long and lovely; on those warmer days,
Such varied hands carry every gift to somewhere deep.
Down in the hollows of their sturdy heart;
Beats a sweeter sap, and ever a sweeter seed.

And yet as chill climbs high those twiggy boughs,
Green is turned to rouge, amber, midnight purple conch.
The winter frightens, and so the cavalry of food factory startle,
Snap
And retreat.

As the man is turned pale at the sight of some splendid specter
So too is the leaf scared scarlet at their eminent fall,
And brittle death –
Returned unto their own soil.

January’s Germination
By Liam Woodworth-Cook

When I was younger I found myself in domicile disease.

I left love on a couch and never warmed up from 6 feet of snow,
I built money and struggled ideals thirsty and unfed.

Isolation strung out on lies
where wildflowers die.

I stayed put for a heart which I only felt driving 9 hours on 95.
I stayed put gnawing my foot, rubber lips
I tied them with shoelaces.

When wildflowers die,
soil sucks bare.

A muted absence under chords of wood,
she dressed as a doll.

When wildflowers die,
leaves mold a casket.

I found my tongue a wood chip speaking,
the ocean washed illusion, and you were a ghost
gone.

Wildflowers die,
as shrubs alone.

I found a room overlooking
metallic humdrum.
Brevity of illness past,

I saw wildflowers crest the snow.
Where brick shadows over tar,
there,
wildflowers grow.

By Basho:
Year’s end-
still in straw hat
and sandals.

——–

Autumn winds-
look, the chestnut
never more green.

——–

Autumn storm-
wild boars tossed
with leaves.

——–

Storming over
lake Nio, whirlwinds
of cherry blossoms.

Categories: Arts & Culture

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