Leaves of Poetry: Reflections

A flurry of falling leaves

In a flurry of falling leaves, September has come to an end. Buttoning up tight and taking a deep breath, we stepped over the threshold into October; only to find that the recent storm-winds had abated overnight and the sunshine was as warm as it was golden-bright.

My first seasonal notebook, my month of leaf poetry, has come to an end. I deliberately chose the theme of writing on leaves for this first notebook as something which, though considered, wouldn’t take hours and hours of figuring out what I wanted to say and how I wanted to set the tone for this series of notebooks. Choosing the words of others and the art of nature as focal points meant that I could feel my way (mostly) self-consciously.

The Poems

By accident more than by design, I ended up with poems from twenty-nine different named poets, and one of unknown origin. There were some other poems that I considered which would have doubled up on poets, but the reason I didn’t include them was more that I didn’t quite feel they fitted as much as the ones I finally chose, rather than solely discounting them because they would be duplicates. All of the poems were those which have been (and remain in some form) important to me at some point in my life. I am honestly not sure which is the earliest one I remember; there are about nine possibilities, all of which I am sure I knew by the time I was five. The newest poem is definitely “Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes” by Mem Fox and Helen Oxenbury (Day XVIII), which came into my life only in the last year, shortly after Elfi did.

Quite early on in the month, working from the list of poems I had drafted, I realised that without really noticing I had been choosing the poem that felt right for the day. I would try to always have a photograph or two in hand, just in case circumstances conspired against me getting out into the woods, but I remember discounting the leaf I had lined up for Day XIV because it just didn’t feel like the right leaf for the day. Instead, I had to go find another which fitted better (which ended up being “The Stolen Child” by William Butler Yeats).

The excerpt needed to fit too, and I found myself analysing the poems from different angles, trying to find the moment of impact or importance (for me personally) with minimal words, appreciating every syllable. I spent a lot of time considering the lyricism of the language used, searching for the right splash or trickle of magic.

The Leaves

As well as the poems, there was a strange sense of knowing it had to be the right leaf that crossed my path in some way. I remember how delighted I was when I spotted the perfect leaf for “The Tyger” by William Blake (Day XIII), burning bright amidst the browns and greens.

The Writing

The act of writing on the leaves was much harder than I thought and took some practice, especially with particularly dry leaves. The veins would interrupt the flow, or the rigid crackle of the leaf threatened the whole thing might just rip and crumble in my hand. For some reason, I got it into my head that the leaves used had to be my first attempts; even if my handwriting slipped or was more scrawl than anything else, I still used those leaves.

The Placing

The placing of the leaves was also important. As well as my eye always being drawn to interesting leaves, I began noticing the backgrounds so much more, acknowledging them as the landscape in miniature.

The Photographs

When taking the photographs, I loved the mischievous way the light of the pen on the leaf made it hard to read at times. I was oddly particularly pleased with “Pied Beauty” by Gerard Manley Hopkins (Day VIII) because, try as I might, I just could not get a ‘good’ photo – every time, my phone camera picked up something different to focus on, and this somehow became part of the beauty of it all.

I had hoped that this would prove a quiet, light-touch and relatively stress-free introduction to my seasonal notebooks, and it certainly was; but, even after a couple of days, I found myself being encouraged by the project to see the world differently, drilling down to the detail and noticing how such small things – whether the words or the leaves – transformed how I experienced the world around me. Scapa soon got used to me pausing on our walks, studying the ground intently, or kneeling down, pen poised, considering the words I wanted to sketch out.

I wrote on Day I that I wanted this to be something that Auri could help with and enjoy, and it became a part of our family walks. Then, delightfully, about halfway through the month, Auri presented me with a leaf she had collected herself and decorated with a love heart and “M” for Mama.

The notebooks won’t all be like this; I have several potential themes already percolating, very different from each other. But I couldn’t have hoped for a more perfect introduction to my seasonal notebooks.

I’ll be back on the first day of November with an update on the theme for my second seasonal notebook, which will run throughout December.

Lydia Crow
The Highlands, Scotland