“Chirp-chirp-chirp, grey autumn rain, did not think you’ll fall again”
I paid no attention to early 1900’s poets while in school.
Not good enough, not modern enough to be discussed at our literary club, relegated to the back of the room in the library stacks. The works of T.S Eliot and Ana Blandiana (winner of the 2018 Griffin Trust for Excellence in Poetry's Lifetime Recognition Award) were all the rage.
Interestingly enough, decades later, as summer ends and we are marched willy-nilly into September, into the periphery of summer and further out, out of the luminous season’s orbit, the catch-phrase of one of these neglected poets pops into my mind. I’ve inserted them above.
They are part of a gorgeous ballad, popular with children and young adults called “The Ballad of A Small Cricket,” and their author is the Romanian writer George Topârceanu.
I attempted to translate two verses of this poem (you’d think this would not be a big deal) and ran into difficulties. As always, good poetry seldom yields itself to translation.
So where does this lead us?
Perhaps — towards a conclusion: leave it to the poets, of every ilk and time, to summarize the gist of the incoming season.
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