This “poem” is really a reflection on a memory.
It was September 12 of my first autumn in Novosibirsk, and it was the first truly cold, autumn-like day in what had been a strangely long summer. To escape the chill, I walked into my favorite bookstore (Kapital or КапиталЪ, unfortunately also the most expensive) and felt this sweet sense of recognition — almost like nostalgia — welling up from everywhere at once. Something about the twilight rain, the cold, and the feel of being surrounded by books just loosened all the tension and homesickness from the previous few months and renewed my hope.
This is also the day I found my favorite souvenir from Russia, a hardcover children’s book of classic seasonal poetry illustrated with gorgeous paintings. (You can see a couple of pages here and here.)
Sometimes, the best way to honor a cherished memory is to make something creative out of it and try to pass on the feeling.
September 12
First dark splashes of autumn,
the dips in degree, with tuchi waddling over
watery-swollen and suddenly—cloudburst!
Fold your scarf behind your lapel and duck the threshold
into ranks of word and color chaos, shuddering
in the warmth of old comrades.
It’s September, the day of naming
and renewal…
Remember who you are, oh summer voyager:
you’re home again in slick black streets
and yellow leaves, the aromatic steam of tea,
the hardcover’s crackling spine,
the brilliant, painted, Pushkin osen’—
here’s your fire, your hearthside peace.
You are the window-candle,
the guidelight in the northern night,
the place where hurt ones huddle
and dream of things-anew.
Note:
Tucha is a dark cloud, probably bringing rain; tuchi is the plural form.
Osen’ is the Russian word for autumn and the title of Pushkin’s famous poem.
I chose them because they’re words I particularly associate with that book of Russian poetry!
Update
I’ll keep the above version for the sake of the actual memory, but this is what I’d like to be considered the official poem:
September 12
Remember who you are, oh summer voyager:
you’re home again in slick black streets
and yellow leaves, the aromatic steam of tea,
the hardcover’s crackling spine,
the brilliant, painted, Pushkin osen’—
here’s your fire, your hearthside peace.
You are the window-candle,
the guidelight in the northern night,
the place where hurt ones huddle
and dream of things-anew.
