Editorial
If the Autumn is here, can the tunes of the soul be far behind?
It is the time of autumn when the soft, tingled breeze makes the finest sensation about the arrival of the festival of lights. After the whole clamour and distraction about the fate of the human beings amidst the pandemic, there is a fortunate distinction that we still make between life and death. Poetry heals, creativity takes us to the stupendous limits of still having the spree to live and the way through which we can claim that we are still alive.
William Carlos Williams waxed eloquent in the tuneful enigma of how he consumed the plums that were in the icebox and how they were delicious. It is this same mellow nature of the autumn, the fruitful extravaganza that we feel even in the case of Keat’s poetry; Ode to Autumn celebrates fullness, ripeness and a constant sense of maturity.
So, Sunday, friends, is that time of the week when you are just a casual observer to how the gluttonic clock does not devour your time and tide. There is scope for relaxation and reflection, and at ‘Sunday Talks’ this week, we bring forward some of the best reflective modes, patterns, poetic sustenance of spirit and figments of spontaneous imagination that let the wind sweep across the dark, dreadful mechanism of the pandemic and usher in a new ray of hope. Here is William Carlos Williams for you all:
Send in your Sunday ramblings to sreesup@gmail.com or techtouchtalk@gmail.com
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This Is Just To Say
William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
From A Poem for Every Autumn Day
