On this saints' eve, we exhort ourselves
To the fact: we may not return
From the edge of worlds;
We are not so distant.
Oft it seems to be forgotten that, 'with devotion's visage
And pious action, ' exoneration is sought.
Celebration is, of course, a group effort: Candy
Does note pave our sidewalks, Children; know that.
It seems uncanny to be, so much, giving away
And so little taking, like this here wind
That chills my blood, sweeping down the maple trees'
Leaves in the hundreds, wisps and swirls
In eddies and curls. Let it never be said
Of us, in multicolours, having been no sway in the ev'ning,
Dying lights of Oktoberfest. Howe'er, it may sound before the new year,
It may stir a ruckus; but solemn real Fear itself,
This is not that. Lowly ivy on the floor
Pumpkins composting, pumpkins composting, more pumpkin
Pulp, composting - in heaps and mixed in a pie
(Let it not be said that there was no sugar in our voice) -
Chewed with candy caramel apples, and what else lies Outsider,
Racked in covert heaps.
'For whom would fardels bear? ' in this fine prerogative manner
Beyond immoderate wishes of simple trepidation,
(Oh, I'm sorry, I don't know what-
I caught myself there.)
The shadowy cool on your back and sun-on-your-face
Phenomenon, hardly justifies this (my coffee's cooling) .
I'm just saying
What I think about a single leaf in the street - it justly
Seems so lonely, I can hardly wait
To breathe life on it again, or cache the scent
Of a million burning candy wrappers on the way home.
Greater things still
Have been said, and if I, too, were (in mid-season)
To project, voices on a valley-mountainside
Heard a thousand thousand miles around
And not be, for at all, unwanted,
Our jack-o-lanterns would, too, smile at this, eh?
But in this, there is a pecking order,
Boy, it was so nice upstairs;
What can he be responsible for?
From up the spiral-tree staircase,
What other Ravens could be walking on my porch,
Summoning (in swaths) accursed evil to the streets?
There's truth to the dying embers
Exhibited by the cobbling flowers and cornucopias -
Truth to the fire and the darkness of Halloween,
Some truth to the crackling stasis that demons met
Outside; there is a voice, too,
To the popping of the first screecheroos,
Soaring into the winded night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem