The Bookshelf ~ October 2024

lectori salutem

Beth Brower is the author of twelve books, including The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion, The Q, the Books of Imirillia, and The Beast of Ten. She also writes here on Beth Brower Scribbles Away.

DEAR READERS,

Late this afternoon Kip said to me, “Emma is like a fifth season.”

I asked what he meant.

He explained that we have spring and summer and fall and winter. But then at some random point in our year, there will be three months of intense Emma release preparation. “Our fifth season,” he said. “Emma season.”

And so Kip and I are enjoying the beginning of fall, as well as Emma Season. Many of you are joining us, I believe.

I’m excited for the release of The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 8 in early December. Some have been asking if there is a preorder. For certain technical reasons, I have thus far chosen not to do preorders. But it is a possibility for the future.

Autumn Leaves, by Edward Okuń, 1912

If any of you have read my book The Q, you know that a particular character loves poetry in the fall and of the fall. I often place “Fern Hill” by Dylan Thomas in my autumnal reading, for its mention of apple trees. It also happens to be one of my father’s favorite poems.

Take a moment, with a cup of tea, or near an open window in the cool of the morning, and read it. Perhaps aloud.

FERN HILL by DYLAN THOMAS

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
    The night above the dingle starry,
          Time let me hail and climb
    Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
          Trail with daisies and barley
    Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
    In the sun that is young once only,
          Time let me play and be
    Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
          And the sabbath rang slowly
    In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
    And playing, lovely and watery
          And fire green as grass.
    And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
    Flying with the ricks, and the horses
          Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
    Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
          The sky gathered again
    And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
    Out of the whinnying green stable
          On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
    In the sun born over and over,
          I ran my heedless ways,
    My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
    Before the children green and golden
          Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
    In the moon that is always rising,
          Nor that riding to sleep
    I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
          Time held me green and dying
    Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Autumn Rain by Julian Alden Weir, 1890

The turning seasons are of great importance to me. I pay attention every day. The clouds, the quality of blue in the sky, the rise and dip in temperature, the subtle tells that change is coming.

I wish to be attuned to the natural calendar. When anyone declares the start or end of a season solely on a pre-assigned date, I guffaw. For each year is its own interpretation of life, and I like to tip my hat to every unique iteration.

It’s not long now, my friends.

Thank you for sharing Emma M. Lion in anticipation of volume 8. Your determination to share, your stories and posts, all the times you have wrapped Emma 1 & 2 to give as gifts—all this allows me to focus on writing and publishing the next Emma. I’m forever grateful.

I hope this October gives you joy in light and comfort in shadow.

x Beth

P.S. For paid subscribers, the September Gazette will be posted soon.