.
Perfect Apples
The Law of Perfect Apples says it all:
A malic acid tang pervades the crisp
And shocking mouth appeal that tells you fall
Is under way. If you should catch a wisp
Of summer turning winter in the play
Your tongue and nose were first created for,
You’ll later fondly recollect the day
When autumn’s dearest gift unhinged the door
That barred you from the vertigo your heart
Decided on as reason tried to keep
The bliss at bay. There isn’t any chart
To guide you through the future. Go to sleep,
And let the maze of hazy hours stem
The tendency to parse and analyze.
Forget the waning sun: no requiem
Is called for to observe the light’s demise,
For seasons come and go, and come again.
Enjoy the fruit, now plentiful and sweet;
Remember that the Sabbath is for men
And not for gods; make plans to overeat.
.
.
Last Raked
He who rakes last rakes least.
The drifts of leaves that gathered in his yard
__were blown from all the Norway maple trees
__his neighbor’d let run wild, and every breeze
would redeploy their ranks. It wasn’t hard
to figure out: the longer he could disregard
__the fallen army bivouacked in the lees
__of hedge and fence, the more the wind would tease
them farther down the landscaped boulevard.
The neighbor’s wife stood at his gate again—
__she’d been pursuing him for quite a while.
Though he saluted all the able men
__she had enlisted with her fulgent smile,
he was reluctant to indulge her yen
__for standing armies mustered rank by file.
first published in Mӧbius (2004)
__
__
Carving
A frosted pumpkin measures what a life
is worth, unless it’s left outside too long
upon the withered vine. I told my wife
to harvest them, and that’s where I went wrong—
I should have asked politely, to avoid
the rankled feelings an imperious
demeanor always brings about. I toyed
with letting go, but then got serious
and brought the splendid crop of pumpkins in
myself, before they suffered from a freeze
that might occur at any time. My sin
was not adjusting my priorities
when all the warning signs were right before
my eyes, for I’d suppressed the evidence
that should have led to my becoming more
attentive to her needs. Benevolence
delayed is unity denied, and now
my Pumpkin’s gone for good, unreconciled
and frosted. Not a man to disallow
a compensation for regrets, I took
my knife and tried to carve a face that smiled
in one of those I’d harvested, but well
though I applied my skill, it had the look
of some demonic creature out of hell.
first published in Möbius (2006)
.
.
C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India. His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.
Wonderful autumn poems…thank you…Allegra
I’m glad you liked them, Allegra, and you are quite welcome.
“Perfect Apples” does what many a poem tries to do, but usually fails or misses the mark. It works via the senses, but carries over into memory and thoughtful musing.
The first two quatrains give the reader a visual sense-experience (the taste, smell, and texture of autumn apples), followed by quatrains that segue perfectly into philosophical comment, and that finish with an impish and almost irreligious conclusion. It is both striking and unexpected.
All the quatrains are as delicately and elegantly put together as the workings of a Swiss watch.
C.B. I must confess that the final line of Perfect Apples caught me flat-footed and left me laughing out loud. I would call that evidence of a successful effort on your part!
The neighbor’s leaves and the frost-wilted pumpkin are iconic images for those of us who have been fortunate to have lived where such things are an annual/cyclical occurrence—although not always as amusing as they are cast in your finely-wrought and highly entertaining poems. Thanks for the smiles, and for bringing back a few memories along with them
Early apples, James, as you must know, present an opportunity for an inner sabbath where a different flesh and blood is acknowledged. Knowledge of your amusement is yet another keen pleasure.
I’m ready for pie! “Perfect Apples” is a rich poem, good for many readings. Moving from the fruit to the clock and the calendar of human existence, I have to reflect that a medieval author might have worried more about Fortuna than about “the future.” But he might have held out a similar prospect of freedom to enjoy the season and its gifts. And thinking of the Japanese, who determined centuries ago that autumn is superior to spring, I find myself in full accord with your delightfully expressed plan to overeat. Also wondering whether this is your quite recent reflection on the season, as the other two poems were published some time back. The price of apples seems to be rising sharply, especially here where we don’t grow them.
Yes, Margaret, this is a more recent reflection, and the price of everything is going up everywhere.
And it’s hard to keep coming up with new fall poems, because autumn verse is a road well travelled.
I thank you for the incisive comments, Joseph. As it happens, I live in the heart of apple country, so I’m quite familiar with the sensuous benefits of fall’s first apples.
C.B., your perfect poem, “Perfect Apples” is exquisite. For me it captures the wonder of an English Cox’s Orange Pippin. It takes me back to my homeland in autumn when my mum used to meet me from school with an apple to munch on the chilly walk home. Your delicious words had me hankering after the perfect apple: “A malic acid tang pervades the crisp/And shocking mouth appeal that tells you fall/Is under way” had me on a mission
A good apple is extremely hard to find in Texas… I know, I’ve been searching for one for over a decade. The very afternoon your poem was published I went in search of the perfect apple… and came home with a bag of Honeycrisps. They’re not Cox’s, but they tasted good. Yes, even though I have lost my taste after Covid… I could taste these.
C.B., thank you for the perfect poem and the for the stirring of my ailing taste buds!
I’ve heard of Cox’s Orange Pippin, but, alas, I’ve never tasted one, Susan. Something to look forward to, I guess.
C.B., your heady mix of philosophy and autumn delights provide much food for reflection. You have me recalling the crispness of freshly picked Golden Delicious apples, our neighbor’s autumn leaves (which terminate in our yard), and Queensland Blue pumpkins.
With blue pumpkins, David, there’s really no need to compare apples and oranges.
Thankfully, the flesh color of this pumpkin doesn’t match the blue/grey skin.
Sounds like ‘Long Island Cheese’ to me.