Now constantly there is the sound,
quieter than rain,
of the leaves falling.
Under their loosening bright
gold, the sycamore limbs
bleach whiter.
Now the only flowers
are beeweed and aster, spray
of their white and lavender
over the brown leaves.
The calling of a crow sounds
loud—a landmark—now
that the life of summer falls
silent, and the nights grow.
“October 10” by W. B.
On my first reading of this poem, I was unimpressed. I could have left it at that, chalked it up to an off day for the otherwise inimitable Wendell Berry. But my policy on reading poetry requires that I read each poem at least twice. So that’s what I did. The second time around, I was still unimpressed. What on earth, I asked myself, had moved this remarkable poet to immortalize in verse what seemed to me an utterly unremarkable day in mid-October? Maybe it was my strong desire to preserve an unsullied opinion of a favourite poet. Or maybe it was my unhealthy compulsion to draw a takeaway from every experience I encounter in life. Whatever the case, I decided to read the poem again. Slowly. And with as much curiosity as I could manage the third time around. That is when the questions started coming.
What is the sound of falling leaves? Have I heard it?
Do sycamore trees really bleach white? Have I seen it?
Who would notice when the only flowers left in the field are asters and beeweed?
How can something as commonplace as the cawing of a crow be a landmark for anything?
These questions made me realise that my first impression of the poem may not have been too far off the mark. October 10 was, in all likelihood, an unremarkable day, and that is probably the point. By attending to sounds we automatically relegate to background noise (falling leaves, cawing crows), and by naming the more imperceptible shifts in colour that mark seasonal change, Berry’s poem celebrates, even consecrates, the humdrum of ordinary time. “October 10” takes note of an unremarkable day, which is another way of saying it discloses what is in fact an entirely remarkable day.
To be remarkable is to be worthy of a second glance, a re-read—literally, a re–marking. The universal requirement of poetry—to be read and read again—is, in this sense, an invitation to participate in that ancient, divine act of gazing upon and rejoicing over creation.
To see the world in this way does not come easily to us. This is why the poet’s description of crows as landmarks is so surprising. Landmarks are by nature supposed to be remarkable. Typically, they are both familiar and distinct—objects uniquely capable of capturing and holding our attention, and of telling us where (and when) we are in the world. When the poet informs us that the cawing of crows is a landmark, he is asking us to reconsider what has become familiar but no longer distinct, no longer weighty with the possibility of meaning. In the Judeo-Christian narrative of creation, we discover an abundance of landmarks—stars and fish, shrubs and flowers, men and women—all capturing and holding the delighted attention of YHWH, who looks and sees that it is good. To re-mark the seemingly unremarkable is an extraordinary act of faith. It can be a bold and, on this side of existence, an often-difficult decision to believe and affirm the holy words that yes, it was good.
Is there anything patently remarkable about waiting at the bus stop on a chilly Sunday morning, or standing in a church pew for the hundredth time, or sitting across from a friend in a café on Main Street? Is there anything patently remarkable, for that matter, about a tray of bread and cups filled with wine? “Earth’s crammed with heaven, / And every common bush afire with God, / But only he who sees takes off his shoes.” The kingdom of heaven is indeed at hand, and already its music is sweeping through the earth. But there is a kind of patient, persistent seeing—a re-marking and a turning aside—that our hurried, harried hearts must learn if we’re to join the song.