In the final week of October, I was Resident Writer at the Dylan Thomas Boathouse. This project, ‘Poem in October‘, saw a number of different writers running events and engaging with visitors in the beautiful museum and tea rooms. I was the last of these, and my week, which I called ‘Poem ON October’, saw me collating, collecting, and encouraging poems from people visiting the Boathouse who had travelled, in some cases, not just from other towns and cities but from other countries, as well.
I collected over 200 poems on October, autumn, the Boathouse, and the stunning estuary views, and put these together into a grand group poem, which you can read below. I used at least one line or phrase from each poem received – no mean feat!! I managed to include something from every poem, apart from two. This one:
I found a pumpkin
It had a lump in
its mouth. I found it
in a forest,
I named it Boris.
Um… Hard to fit this one in! And another, rhyming poem, which told, in brief, the story of the life of Dylan Thomas. It was too hard to include that, when I had asked everyone else to write about autumn / October / the views! So, sorry if these are your poems. I don’t think Dylan would have minded! The poem below is thematically more sound with these exclusions. And, well, Boris is indeed a pumpkin, but politics are not for this project, really, either…
Many thanks to all who took time to write with me at the Dylan Thomas Boathouse, in any case. It was fun! And I think the end result is very interesting. I hope you enjoy it.
Poem On October
by Visitors to the Boathouse, 25th – 30th October 2016
compiled by Mab Jones
(i)
October is the time of change.
Autumn has begun.
Autumn it is dawning.
The hillside ripples with Autumn greens.
Leaves as red as fire.
Trees of gold and green.
Low lying light.
The flurry of the Autumn wind.
Apples falling,
falling down,
dancing off the trees,
dancing in the air,
tumble and skitter
in our pathway,
under feet, where
a blanket of leaves
lie. They love tumbling
down, orange
red and brown.
Brown, yellow, green.
Crunching, rustling,
a kaleidoscope of burnished memories
in this breezy, hidden forest where
roots raucously roam.
(ii)
There is nothing about the autumn
that I wouldn’t like to repeat next year.
A pot of Earl Grey and
Welsh rarebit.
The woodburner’s glow.
Smells from bonfires.
Eating biscuits.
Thick jumpers
and fluffy socks,
the donning of scarves.
Hot chocolate, fireworks,
murmured conversation and
roaming dogs.
Paw prints along the path.
Big castles.
The wind blows in your face.
Cosy in bed.
To walk on the hill’s shoulder.
Still autumn views.
Ride your bike as leaves fall.
We can run in the leaves.
Autumn is the best,
especially in the West.
The month of my birth,
and yours.
Bonkers, conkers, muddy shoes
leaving crisp, gentle footprints.
Put some big socks on.
Apple and cinnamon,
pumpkin and sage,
the tastes and smells of October,
when the grass is jewelled.
hedgehogs, squirrels
munching on acorns,
conkers, horse chestnuts,
stunning sun rises,
the misty mornings,
smoke curling up the chimney,
swirling sweetness,
October of our lives.
(iii)
October winds growing stronger,
October waves growing bolder,
The wind is howling,
an explosion of crows.
Autumn leaves are falling.
October grey sun.
Seeds holding the promise of fruit.
My heart, made of leaves.
Birds squealing with delight
at dusk, and at dawn.
Plain at noon.
Sun dazzled beaks.
The seagulls swoop,
the curlews cry.
Lapping water.
Boats splashing on the sea.
Thigh-wadered fisherman.
The glistening river as it flows.
An atmosphere of calm.
Streaks of silvery light.
Lonely boat on sandy bank.
The choppy sea is flowing.
Ebb…. and flow.
The clouds roll in.
The sea rolls out.
(iv)
Summer’s grave, autumn’s gate.
Halfway back from nowhere.
Wide brooding, dull and greying, skies.
Animals start going into hibernation.
No more heat, no more sun.
A little auk drifting in on the tide,
sloe-black eyes staring blindly.
A scary orange pumpkin
that has no mouth or nose,
a hollow stare,
cackles creepily.
Pumpkins lighting up like torches.
A bird as black as coal, fast as the wind.
The fall of giants.
The skeletons of the trees,
the spider-like branches.
Fingers of mist.
Chilly fingers scaling your face.
Spooky ghosts.
Hijacked / ambushed.
The days go cold.
The trees sway.
Decaying leaves.
Muted shades.
Beaches deserted,
sun retreating.
Winter is knocking
round the corner.
Winter comes soon.
Then it’s snowing.
The day ends quickly,
rattling across the years.
(v)
Memories made,
Never to be forgotten.
An October birthday.
The view is beautiful.
Under silk moods.
Whiskey to the heart.
Full of peace, being playful.
We will be fellow adventurers together,
each year will be a new year we’ve grown.
In fondo mi sento fortunato.
Today I take home a
poet’s song.
