1What is sometimes called atongue of flameor an arm extended burningis only the longred and orange branch ofa green maplein early September reachinginto the greenest fieldout of the green woods at theedge of which the birch treesappear a little tattered tiredof sustaining delicacyall through the hot summer re-minding everyone (inour family) of a Russiansong a storyby Chekhov or my father
2What is sometimes called atongue of flameor an arm extended burningis only the longred and orange branch ofa green maplein early September reachinginto the greenest fieldout of the green woods at theedge of which the birch treesappear a little tattered tiredof sustaining delicacyall through the hot summer re-minding everyone (inour family) of a Russiansong a story byChekhov or my father onhis own lawn standingbeside his own wood inthe United States ofAmerica saying (in Russian)this birch is a lovelytree but among the otherssomehow superficial
Perhaps it is something of an acquired taste, but I really appreciate the humour in “Autumn” (1991), I love the streak of mock seriousness running through the whole text and the contrast between the anti-climax of the poem’s conclusion and its core of vivid natural imagery. Much nature poetry aims to give us some kind of special insight into the processes of the natural world in order to then put that insight to work on larger questions and issues having to do with human (rather than natural). Mary Oliver’s “Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness” (2012) is a useful example of this. There is much more going on in the poem, but one of the natural (!) conclusions from reading the poem is that the changing of seasons shows us that we have to let go of what or who we love so that they can become renewed. Of course Oliver is not alone in writing this kind of poetry, Romantics loved to use nature as a means of reflecting human experiences, but the absence of canonical Romantics on this blog should tell you a lot about how much I dislike their poetry.
I think Grace Paley’s poem is ripe for this kind of conclusion (the passing of the seasons is like the passing of human life), but she pulls it back and does something a little more interesting through the repetition of the first stanza of the poem. I find the natural imagery of the first part of the poem very effective at contextualising nature as the reflection of human experiences rather than as a means to reflect on human experiences. Because these images are introduced first, “[a] tongue of flame” (2) and “an arm extended burning” (3) become the language of reading the natural world, rather than the other way around. The poem does not ask us to meditate on how a branch is sometimes like a burning arm, but rather points out that, in our poetic language and communal memories, a burning arm is sometimes just a branch. This reading of the poem as being about how nature comes to mean (rather than reflect) human experiences is supported, I think, by the choice of maple and birch trees as subject matter. Both plants are extensively used in national[istic] imagery in the US and Russia.
The poem takes a step further through the repetition of the first stanza. This repetition contributes not only to the sense of regular rhythm, which is also at work in the prosody (regular iambic feet despite variable line lengths) and typography (no punctuation marks but spacing of words), but an experience of the cyclical flow of memory. A memory of Russia (“of a Russian / song a story / by Chekhov or my father“ (15-17)) becomes a memory of the US (“[…] my father on / his own lawn standing / beside his own wood in / the United States of / America” (34-41). In the flow of memory, the birch tree becomes a “somehow superficial” plant because although it is the excuse for writing the poem it remains only a repository of human meanings (persona memories and national iconography).
Contagious Gothic 