Autumn

Autumn was it when we first met
Autumn is it what I can't forget

Autumn have made me alive
because in Autumn you entered my life

In Autumn you came like a summer breece
I didn't realize what it is

In Autumn I fell in love at first sight
I knew that everything was alright

In Autumn there was that special dance
I knew our love will not have a chance

In Autumn I was under your spell
Autumn - a secret I will never tell

In Autumn you showed me pride
I wish I had never left your side

In Autumn miracles came true
everything I was loging for was you

That Autumn changed my life in many ways
I will never forget those special days

Autumn was it when we first met
Autumn is it what I can't forget

by Sheila Butterfly

Comments (6)

I searched for Rainer Maria Rilke somewhere, but I got him in this poem.
Kind of like the one who'll never meet...
Rainer, with your words you create a soothing effect in our minds. You Who Never Arrived simply made me at a loss. Rainer, you the man :)
This is a great poem, and deeply moving. It is technically masterful with no cliche in sight, and original associations abound within a classical free-verse form. I think Margery is correct in her interpretation. He yearns for spiritual wholeness, but his Muse or Beloved remains desperately elusive. That phrase about the mirrors in the shop being still dizzy with '[Her] presence' and giving back his 'too-sudden image' is quite striking and fresh. It conveys his desperation and longing with great force. Paradoxically perhaps, without his knowing it, the narrator's search for the Beloved and attendant pain may be exactly what he needs for creative renewal, and not the union itself.
Rilke has always been one of my favourite poets but I had not read this one until I saw it on Poem.Hunter. To me this is a most beautiful poem which tugs at my heart and soul. My interpretation is that he is seeking wholeness-part of his soul is incomplete.This could be that his inspiration is not fully matched by his ability to express it; he has difficulty capturing it as he wants to/as his vision compels him to; his muse is elusive. This seems to translate into the mystic's desire for total oneness with the divine beloved or that spirit which drives him to write; the perfect love -but the lover forever eluding him, leaving him almost but not quite whole, still searching.
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