August Poems: A Call For August - Poem by Sandra Fowler

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A Call For August - Poem by Sandra Fowler

There is a blue fragrance, essence of dusk.
The smoke of last things lingers on old clothes.
Sun has become as rare as goldenrod.
I call for August, but no answer comes.

Autumn awaits across a worn doorsill.
I need you to make sense of falling leaves,
When death paints a rich picture ot itself,
And shadows measure out the long way home.

Comments about A Call For August by Sandra Fowler

  • John Oconnell 8/12/2010 3:43:00 AM

    Scintillating with no word wasted.Thank you for sharing this gem.10

    Best regards,


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  • Marieta Maglas 4/23/2010 9:39:00 AM

    wonderful meditative poem about the nature, lovely to read Reply

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  • Sally Plumb Plumb 10/16/2009 12:47:00 PM

    My golden rod has gone to seed. Reply

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  • Raj Nandy 7/1/2009 11:15:00 PM

    The poetic imagery of the last line, tenderly touches my mind! As lengthening
    shadows point towards home, an eternal refuge for my chained soul! 10+
    -Raj Nandy

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  • Mamta Agarwal 6/18/2009 5:59:00 AM

    I call for August but no answer comes- such an achingly beautiful line. that's life. how through unusual images you convey the impermanence fragility of life.
    sharing ourselves with someone who understands is deepest human desire.

    i have read it second time. your poetry grows on me as a reader.

    thanks Sandra

    Warm Regards

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  • Yelena M. 4/14/2009 12:45:00 PM

    Melancholic, but so sunny melancholic, Sandra! :) As in all your poems, you capture certain moments with the beauty by your soul and express it in unique picturesque lines.Just exceptional(applause! ! ! :)
    Best wishes and thank you.

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  • Deva De Silva 3/18/2009 11:49:00 AM

    Stemming from nature itself… lovely sentiments! Reply

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  • Andrew Blakemore 3/15/2009 3:54:00 PM

    Excellent as always Sandra, you paint such beautiful scenes. Best wishes, Andrew x Reply

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  • premji premji 2/25/2009 3:49:00 AM

    you are none but mother nature......
    it is very difficult to find out the discription of a tree or flower
    from the writings of an urban writer............
    you are someone livin in tandem with nature...........

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  • Mamta Agarwal 2/15/2009 9:50:00 AM

    we look longingly at what has gone, resist and then accept. your images are surreal and expression so very serenading, it simply enthralls and touches with its depth of meaning

    lots of love


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Read all 41 comments »
August Poems
  1. 1. August
    Dorothy Parker
  2. 2. Dark August
    Derek Walcott
  3. 3. August 8th
    Anne Sexton
  4. 4. August
    Boris Pasternak
  5. 5. August 17th
    Anne Sexton
  6. 6. August 1914
    Isaac Rosenberg
  7. 7. An August Midnight
    Thomas Hardy
  8. 8. California Hills In August
    Dana Gioia
  9. 9. A Call For August
    Sandra Fowler
  10. 10. A Calendar Of Sonnets: August
    Helen Hunt Jackson
  11. 11. August Moonrise
    Sara Teasdale
  12. 12. Composed By The Sea-Side, Near Calais, A..
    William Wordsworth
  13. 13. August
    Hans Christian Andersen
  14. 14. ' [ Late August ] '
    Ency Bearis
  15. 15. Calais, August 1802
    William Wordsworth
  16. 16. Remorse. (From August Von Platen)
    Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  17. 17. [month Of] August
    Hilaire Belloc
  18. 18. In August
    Paul Laurence Dunbar
  19. 19. The Shepherd's Calendar - August
    John Clare
  20. 20. Composed Near Calais, On The Road Leadin..
    William Wordsworth
  21. 21. Calais, August 15, 1802
    William Wordsworth
  22. 22. August Hands
    Lorraine Margueritte Gasrel ..
  23. 23. August Leading...
    Theodora (Theo) Onken
  24. 24. August Moon
    Bonnie Collins
  25. 25. August
    Algernon Charles Swinburne
  26. 26. (be Strong Now) My Night With Her In Au..
    Justin Gildow
  27. 27. ! Song Of August!
    Rema Prasanaa
  28. 28. August Moon
    Emma Lazarus
  29. 29. Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 I..
    William Wordsworth
  30. 30. A Book Of Strife In The Form Of The Diar..
    George MacDonald
  31. 31. ***********on August 21,2008
    Frank Lisa IndiRa Francesca ..
  32. 32. Lines Written In August
    Thomas Babbington Macaulay
  33. 33. Grant At Rest-- August 8, 1885
    James Whitcomb Riley
  34. 34. The Shepheardes Calender: August
    Edmund Spenser
  35. 35. August
    Edith Nesbit
  36. 36. In August
    Katharine Lee Bates
  37. 37. Last August Hours Before The Year 2000
    Naomi Shihab Nye
  38. 38. August
    James Whitcomb Riley
  39. 39. August
    Elinor Morton Wylie
  40. 40. *809 Peridot Birthstone Of August
    John Knight
  41. 41. Climbing Milestone Mountain, August 22, ..
    Kenneth Rexroth
  42. 42. 15th August,1998 In India
    Dr. A.Celestine Raj Manohar ..
  43. 43. I Am Sorry Pakistan On 14th August, Inde..
    Shamin Bashir Shah
  44. 44. Mid-August
    Duncan Campbell Scott
  45. 45. August Tidings
    Usha Pisharody
  46. 46. It Was August I Remember, I Remember Whe..
    Sean Joyce
  47. 47. August Is The Dying Month
    Wanda Swim Strunk
  48. 48. August
    Jean Blewett
  49. 49. Two In August
    John Crowe Ransom
  50. 50. August 17,2005
    Max Reif

New August Poems

  1. Brother Wasp, Dennis Ryan
  2. Sum Sonnet, emebet mesfin
  3. In Illowa In August, Francis Duggan
  4. Goodbye August 2018- A Doomsday Month, alexander opicho
  5. Long Ago, Constantine P. Cavafy
  6. August Knocks On The Door, LEK GJOKA
  7. August Destiny By Gio Masserati, Gio Masserati
  8. An Evil Wind, Barry Middleton
  9. August To November, Mark Heathcote
  10. ............. Poet's Who've Committed Su.., James McLain

August Poems

  1. August

    When my eyes are weeds, And my lips are petals, spinning Down the wind that has beginning Where the crumpled beeches start In a fringe of salty reeds; When my arms are elder-bushes, And the rangy lilac pushes Upward, upward through my heart; Summer, do your worst! Light your tinsel moon, and call on Your performing stars to fall on Headlong through your paper sky; Nevermore shall I be cursed By a flushed and amorous slattern, With her dusty laces' pattern Trailing, as she straggles by.

  2. August 17th

    Surely I will be disquieted by the hospital, that body zone- bodies wrapped in elastic bands, bodies cased in wood or used like telephones, bodies crucified up onto their crutches, bodies wearing rubber bags between their legs, bodies vomiting up their juice like detergent, Here in this house there are other bodies. Whenever I see a six-year-old swimming in our aqua pool a voice inside me says what can't be told... Ha, someday you'll be old and withered and tubes will be in your nose drinking up your dinner. Someday you'll go backward. You'll close up like a shoebox and you'll be cursed as you push into death feet first. Here in the hospital, I say, that is not my body, not my body. I am not here for the doctors to read like a recipe. No. I am a daisy girl blowing in the wind like a piece of sun. On ward 7 there are daisies, all butter and pearl but beside a blind man who can only eat up the petals and count to ten. The nurses skip rope around him and shiver as his eyes wiggle like mercury and then they dance from patient to patient to patient throwing up little paper medicine cups and playing catch with vials of dope as they wait for new accidents. Bodies made of synthetics. Bodies swaddled like dolls whom I visit and cajole and all they do is hum like computers doing up our taxes, dollar by dollar. Each body is in its bunker. The surgeon applies his gum. Each body is fitted quickly into its ice-cream pack and then stitched up again for the long voyage back.

  3. August 8th

    Listen here. I've never played it safe in spite of what the critics say. Ask my imaginary brother, that waif, that childhood best friend who comes to play dress-up and stick-up and jacks and Pick-Up-Sticks, bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics. Or form a Piss Club where we all go in the bushes and peek at each other's sex. Pop-gunning the street lights like crows. Not knowing what to do with funny Kotex so wearing it in our school shoes. Friend, friend, spooking my lonely hours you were there, but pretend.

  4. August

    This was its promise, held to faithfully: The early morning sun came in this way Until the angle of its saffron beam Between the curtains and the sofa lay, And with its ochre heat it spread across The village houses, and the nearby wood, Upon my bed and on my dampened pillow And to the corner where the bookcase stood. Then I recalled the reason why my pillow Had been so dampened by those tears that fell- I'd dreamt I saw you coming one by one Across the wood to wish me your farewell. You came in ones and twos, a straggling crowd; Then suddenly someone mentioned a word: It was the sixth of August, by Old Style, And the Transfiguration of Our Lord. For from Mount Tabor usually this day There comes a light without a flame to shine, And autumn draws all eyes upon itself As clear and unmistaken as a sign. But you came forward through the tiny, stripped, The pauperly and trembling alder grove, Into the graveyard's coppice, russet-red, Which, like stamped gingerbread, lay there and glowed. And with the silence of those high treetops Was neighbour only the imposing sky And in the echoed crowing of the cocks The distances and distances rang by: There in the churchyard underneath the trees, Like some surveyor from the government Death gazed on my pale face to estimate How large a grave would suit my measurement. All those who stood there could distinctly hear A quiet voice emerge from where I lay: The voice was mine, my past; prophetic words That sounded now, unsullied by decay: 'Farewell, wonder of azure and of gold Surrounding the Transfiguration's power: Assuage now with a woman's last caress The bitterness of my predestined hour! 'Farewell timeless expanse of passing years! Farewell, woman who flung your challenge steeled Against the abyss of humiliations: For it is I who am your battlefield! 'Farewell, you span of open wings outspread, The voluntary obstinacy of flight, O figure of the world revealed in speech, Creative genius, wonder-working might!'

  5. Dark August

    So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky of this black August. My sister, the sun, broods in her yellow room and won't come out. Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume like a kettle, rivers overrun; still, she will not rise and turn off the rain. She is in her room, fondling old things, my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls like a crash of plates from the sky, she does not come out. Don't you know I love you but am hopeless at fixing the rain ? But I am learning slowly to love the dark days, the steaming hills, the air with gossiping mosquitoes, and to sip the medicine of bitterness, so that when you emerge, my sister, parting the beads of the rain, with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness, all with not be as it was, but it will be true (you see they will not let me love as I want), because, my sister, then I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones, The black rain, the white hills, when once I loved only my happiness and you.