Поэт (Lyricist): Галина Александровна Везикова
Композитор (Composer): Л. Белоцкая
Обработка (Arranger): V. Aficiuc Other info and sheet music found here.
Вот опять наступила осень.
Vot opyat' nastupila osen'.
Here again has tread autumn.
Листья счастья по свету ищут.
List'ya schast'ya po svetu ishchut.
Leaves [of] happiness through [the] light look for.
Дождь слёзливо о чём-то просит,
Dozhd' slyozlivo o chom-to prosit,
Rain tearfully for something pleads,
Словно нищий.
Slovno nishchiy.
As if [a] beggar.
Припев: И с прощальным напевом птицы I s proshchal'nym napevom ptitsy And with parting song [of a] bird Улетают вдогонку лету, Uletayut vdogonku letu, Fly after (persuit of) summer, И куда-то душа стремится, I kuda-to dusha stremitsya, And somewhere [the] soul strives, Словно птица тоскуя в клетке. Slovno ptitsa toskuya v kletke. As if bird yearning in [a] cage.
От унылых дождей ненастных
Ot unylykh dozhdey nenastnykh
From dismal/dreary rains inclement
И от ветров тревожных песен
I ot vetrov trevozhnykh pesen
And from wind's distressing songs
Так хотелось бы вдруг попасть мне
Tak khotelos' by vdrug popast' mne
So [I] want would suddenly to get me
В край небесный.
V kray nebesnyy.
To country heavenly.
В том краю нет скорбей, тревоги,
V tom krayu net skorbey, trevogi,
In that land no worries, alarms,
Там Спаситель нас ждёт с любовью,
Tam Spasitel' nas zhdot s lyubov'yu,
There [the] Savior [for] us waits with love,
Освятив путь земной дороги
Osvyativ put' zemnoy dorogi
Sanctifying [the] way [of] earth's road
Своей кровью.
Svoyey krov'yu.
[by] His blood.
Припев: Там не будет прощальных песен, Tam ne budet proshchal'nykh pesen, There no will be parting songs, Позабудет душа печали Pozabudet dusha pechali [They] will forget [the] soul's sorrow И со всеми святыми вместе I so vsemi svyatymi vmeste A with all the saints together Иисуса Христа прославим. Iisusa Khrista proslavim. Jesus Christ [we] will praise.
There! Autumn comes upon the edge of night
With unfurled clouds and hues and sinking sun,
He broadcasts Summertime's impending flight
To fairer lands of promised bliss begun.
But Autumn knows she is the fickle one:
Her days once started happy, bright, and strong,
Grew wearisome and dull and overdone.
Thus Autumn comes to cool the sun-parched throng,
Enliv'ning hearts with crisp and wisp and hue-forged song.
I sing of Autumn and her sister Fall: As days grow short and Summer speeds away, And captures dying leaves against the wall, She comes most gently, bit by bit each day Till Summer's languid hold and heat decay. Then banners flung, unfurled against the sky, Bedecked in colors, sights, and sounds, display The passing of fair Summer's long "Good-bye"— A glorious emblem heralding Winter's battle cry!
O Autumn, come and quench the heat of day,
The stifling blaze of Summer's austere eye.
She came with joy and merriment away
With leafy green and promised blue of sky.
But Days grew long and hot and choked with dust
And smoke! Her promised fruit can't satisfy.
The fickle winds, the soot and parched earth crust,
The shrinking lakes in sun-baked lands and hills,
The tattered leaves, most faded brown and rust,
All long for Autumn's winds and cooling thrills!
Set air to crisp; enliven hearts and minds!
Bring rain and brisk with frosty nighttime chills!
With colored leaves and freshness all entwined,
She paints her joyful masterpiece unsigned.
O Summertime, with warm embrace, Enchanted time with leafy lace, Whose squeeze of heat makes days grow long, Whose nights are warm and filled with song, Yes, your embrace which long held sway, Infused each bloom and flow'ry spray, Has now grown weak and trending frail; Your short'ning days with colors pale. You grasp at time but days rush past, Leaves tired of life soon brown are massed. Yet vainly you would try to stall, The coming footsteps of the Fall Or Autumn with her captive hue— When with one blow your works shall strew. O Summer, you must give way soon, And Nature shall to Fall atune!
See Autumn comes as Summer ends:
The crops which Spring time planted—
The consummation of the Summer's growing time— Now ripen, waiting harvest.
Now Autumn comes as life on earth draws close:
The choices when in youth time planted—
The maturity of all living, zest, and thrill—
Now ripen, waiting repercussion.
See Autumn comes with colors round its head resplendent:
Colors crown its trees and leaves and landscaped hills—
Crispness etches round each breath and turn and morn—
And crowns the year with glory.
Come Autumn now upon the hoary head with splendor:
Youth-time hues retreat to fields of white— Silver hairs and graying beards
crown erstwhile callowness with sage—
And wisdom comes to brimful bloom.
But in the Spring time did you plant good seeds?
In the midst of Summer's carefree luxuries,
Did you tend your crops and pull the weeds?
For harvest comes all based on toil.
And in the season of your youth and vigor,
Sowed you seeds that counted life and good?
And tended them with careful watching forward?
So harvesting would yield a crop of gold?
Autumn whispers, calling those who hear,
whispering peace and rest and soft enfolding.
Tenderly she speaks with muted voice and soundless deeds,
paints her colors on the landscape, chilling breath within each lung,
delicately drapes the trees and hills with wispy veil,
lovingly then sighs of hopes and dreams that lie unsung;
but firmly curbs the chance and hope that anything succeeds—
root, tuber, spore and corn, inkling, germ and seeds—
lie dormant down as aged men sleep and dream to yet again be young.
But Autumn speaks in jagged tones to those who listen not,
blowing wildly on their untamed plans and projects still unfolding.
Sternly how she shouts and utters, howls and flutters ceaselessly,
smiting hard the grasses, blades, and bushes—flowers fade—
tearing leaf by leaf each tree denudes till starkly stands,
coldly blowing hard on summer's half-done art and trade,
till nature hangs her head in mute assent and then agrees
that Springtime thoughts are not a refuge for to flee—
now sadly lies midst dingy leaves and sorrows weighed.
But Autumn speaks of turning and returning if you'd hear:
cold her touch of ice and restless wind will turn again to Spring.
Her dazzling blaze of colors calls the heart to long,
paints the hope and imprint of a coming Spring once more,
nestles wish and aspiration in the long, dark night,
calls to mind the days of yore and points to faith's implore,
though the night be dark with tempests howling cold and strong,
she tends belief of right o'er wrong with quiet song,
and settles down to dream of Springtime's coming store!
The last rose of summer,
fragrant blossom and frail dainty,
Fall is upon us and your beauty will soon expire,
falling finally from faded, flaccid form.
Yet bold you adventure to come forth now,
to grow and glow and burst with beauty bright
to cheerf'lly decorate the dying landscape with your joy,
while all about you collects the dusty leaves of yesterday.
Yet you will fade and fall:
Autumn's winds and Winter's rains
will wash all memories of you from this place;
and in stark pose, the denuded rose
will stand in deathly cold and spiny salute to its fallen flowers.
October!
Fair month of a thousand scents and memories,
Laden with the weight of a night that presses in
pressed down and squeezes the daylight into less and less.
Then warms the days and frosts the nights,
turning leaves to transient jewels:
marveled masterpieces of ruby, amber, opal, topaz;
Chill that crisps the air and makes it catch upon the breath,
that holds the breath as a gossamer phantom before it slowly flies away;
Crunch under foot of a thousand leaves that finished their journey
from sap of Spring to fragments of Fall.
Oh October!
Hale breath of cooling answering to the smokey, dusty voice of Summer,
Heavy with the promise of moisture,
renewing rain and moody mists.
Anticipation runs high upon news of your arrival.
Come now and shower us with Autumn's blessings.
D. Benning, (c) 2015
Glade Creek Grist Mill, Babcock State Park, West Virginia
Autumn calls, but few there be that hear her.
The loud, bright glare of California sun drowns out her voice.,
So does the muted dinge of dusty skies and smokey sun.
She thus calls but most listen not—by choice.
Oh, there might be a tree or two that starts to change its leaves,
Dropping green for yellow—but usually brown like moldy wheat.
There are the cool mornings that almost speak of cold,
But quickly lose their chill amid the blaring glare of summer's incessant heat.
Ah, Autumn can you speak louder and call more insistently?
Call to us with cool, crisp words more persistently?
Our skies are choked with dust and heat,
Our land is plagued with drought before.
We long to see the cool, cool winds.
And feel the life-giving rains once more
Pray to the Lord of the Harvest that there may be
Workers to come and harvest the fields.
But we also pray that the Lord of the Skies would send rain,
Rain to soften the land to give fruit and yield.
Autumns calls, but no one listens
The loud, bright dazzle of sins blocks her calls.
So few stop to listen to that still, small voice.
We need the softening rains of Autumn,
We need the gentle rains from God.
We need the indwelling of His Spirit,
We need His poke that will prod!
Send us Autumn rains and revival, Lord.
Send us life giving refreshment from Your Grace
We will perish without the cooling rains;
Let us Your Love and Law embrace!
One of my favorite poems is Caedmon's Hymn You can listen to the old poem here.....
Ruins of Whitby Abbey, where Caedmon lived and worked.
Isn't
that rich? :-)
Now we must praise Heaven-kingdom's Guardian,
The Maker's might and his mind-thoughts....
I love the imagery; I love the alliteration; I love the cadence and the
crunchiness of the language.
We, however, don't speak Old English anymore.... The closest would be the folks
in Iceland. Seriously!
But we can use these techniques in modern poetry. Old English poems were composed of lines divided in half by a break, a caesura, a marked pause. Then instead of rhymes, alliteration was the key to how the ancient bards crafted their words. They also had a rich stock of word images called kennings. For example, instead of referring to the ocean or the sea, they would call it the whale-road.
Fall foliage at peak in Pocahontas County, W.Va.
Here
is an attempt, written after seeing pictures of the first fall colors touching
the woods back east and the auroras lighting up the skies in the north.
Summer’s Requiem
Now I will tell, icy tintinnabulations,
Mighty mysteries, bitter majesties,
Aerie’s icy displays; autumn advances
On wintry wings, whispering in silence.
Summer’s salvo long silenced;
Flowers fade, long nights fall.
Nightlights’ silent scream nature’s darkly flowers,
Auroral displays, breath-taking sky dancers,
Drape heaven’s roof, Raven’s road,
With majesty and wonder, mighty Lord’s Mantle;
Then kisses icy kinfolk, snow-bound kith,
And sings remembering— Summer’s requiem.
Some say "Autumn" as a special word: "Autumn!"—
a joyous, gaudy, rainbow-sparkled display of excessiveness;
a right regal regaling of sight and sound, sense and smell—
and they would be right.
For off in the forested hills and hollows, ridges and rills
the sharp, crisp breath of Summer’s End comes,
tickling, trickling, traipsing, trilling round each leaf and limb,
sheaf and stem,
till Autumn’s playful palette paints the earth.
But some say "Fall" as a synonym—
and mean that Autumn merely is a time for leaves to drop,
to plop, to droop, to tiredly slump,
then mass together in ignoble heaps upon the lawn—
and they would be right.
For in the sun-encrusted valleys of the Far Out West,
Summer’s End comes not with biting breath,
Summer’s End comes not with wintry whispers.
Rather Summer over stays her welcome.
Leaves grow tired and yellow, dusty and brown,
mottled, molded, mangy skeletons
of Spring’s once bright display,
each longing to shrink, shrivel, fade and drop,
or be driven hard upon a dry north wind.
Yet here and there, and sometimes in between,
a sigh of "Autumn" comes and touches tenderly a tree or two,
and kisses hedge or bush,
leaving blush and hush and innuendo of Summer’s Grand Adieu.
Some say "Autumn" and then say "Fall"
as if there is no difference there at all.
But rosy cheeks and jewel-struck hills
speak loudly to correct that error.
As Summer retires, renouncing and relinquishing her reign,
Autumn proudly receives honor from lesser Fall.
—And that would be right!
