Tony Pupello
Essay #35 Oct/Nov/Dec 2026
It is clichéd to say – but I will take the risk – the older I get, the faster the seasons seem to spin. As this is our first Oct/Nov/Dec issue, I thought it appropriate to look at some of the major holidays found at this time of the year.
In the northern hemisphere we are once again on the cusp of the fall season. As one who enjoys four seasons, and appreciates the beauty and offerings of each season in its time, I nonetheless in my heart of hearts think I find fall to be my favorite. Speaking of clichés, there is something about the first chill in the air, the shortening day, the beauty and sadness of turned and turning leaves that will all too soon fall and begin their process of decay – clichés all, but truths nonetheless.
roasting chestnuts
the whisper
of eventide
This wonderfully evocative poem by Joanna Ashwell speaks to me of the essence of fall. Just what is this very poetic “whisper of eventide” that seems to be the crux of the poem? Although eventide is simply that time of day when daylight fades into night – year-round – it seems a most appropriate word for this time of the year; not least because a bit archaic, it evokes the passage of time so strongly felt. And what of the whisper? Well, no doubt it speaks to the sound of wind rustling through leaves. But there is more. There is the sweet smell of roasting chestnuts on the wind and, if we close our eyes, we can almost taste them as well. A very fine synergy of the senses. In a future essay, I am hoping to discuss my take on the poetics of very fine haiku such as this piece.
The autumn equinox, the mid-point of the year in the northern hemisphere when night “overtakes” day. Heralding the autumn equinox — which heralds the start of this season — is this wonderfully “small” piece by John Zheng.
autumn equinox
an old couple on the porch
cracking pumpkin seeds
This poem is masterfully resonant on a number of levels. As the balance between day and night shifts, so does the balance between youth and senescence. Although in their decline , we witness this couple still together, still sharing. They are not done yet. The pumpkins have been scooped, the flesh mashed into pumpkin pie filling, the pumpkin seeds roasted and ready to be eaten. Comfortable in the season and in their season, there is no active conversation here. Listening very closely, we can hear the their conversation in the rhythms of the pumpkin seeds cracking.
No survey of seasonal poems would be complete without at least one speaking directly to Halloween. So I offer this interesting piece from the pen of Cor van den Heuvel.
the pumpkin grins
at its own insides filling
the bowl
In a rather chilling way, van den Heuvel turns the tide, as it were, on the pumpkin and its purpose – to ward off wandering souls or evil spirits. The pumpkin’s focus is not outward; rather it is inward, facing towards a bowl being filled with its own flesh, witnessing its own slow demise. All the while, of course, retaining its grin. I wonder what this poem says to the individual reader about themselves. A most deft usage of personification/anthropomorphism.
From All Hallows’ Eve we move to All Hallows’ Day, known to most of us now as All Saints’ Day, then on to All Souls’ Day as presented by Dan Schwerin and Billy Pauly below.
All Saints’ dusk All Souls’ Day
coaxing the corn dust flies in the darkened eyes
to its final rest of the jack-o-lantern
All Saints’ Day was originally celebrated as a day to honor early Christian martyrs, then as a day to honor the abundance of Christian saints that did not have their own festival day. At dusk, Schwerin’s poem resonates with a peaceful, tranquil quality. Worth noting is his use of “corn dust”. While to most of us it may conjure an innocuous, soft, powdery substance, to those who work the land, especially on larger farms, it may pose serious health issues. Is Schwerin comparing the ordinary folk who risk their health to saints who risked much the same and more?
On the heels of All Saints’ we find All Souls’. Originally a day to celebrate religious non-saints who were in purgatory, it quickly spread from France to be adopted by the Catholic Church for all souls residing there. Though not quite as chilling as van den Heuvel’s piece, Pauly’s poem certainly echoes it. Carved before Halloween, the jack-o-lantern has certainly aged, its sagging eyes now home to flies feasting on or laying eggs in it. I assume Pauly was aware of the origins of the day; as such, I can only wonder if there was a deeper meaning in the poem – i.e.: an allusion to the penitential soul suffering in purgatory.
Growing up in NYC I was not aware of the Hindu Festival of Lights until it was first celebrated at New York’s South Street Seaport in the late 1980’s. Deepavali, or as it is more commonly known, Diwali, is the celebration of the forces of light vanquishing the forces of darkness – specifically the Lords Krishna and Rama in their respective battles against demons. My understanding is the central figures included in the celebration is the Goddess Lakshmi as well as Lord Ganesha. It is joyous, festive and colorful. In India, as in Long Island, there are fireworks but, sadly, not at the South Street Seaport!
A few “light” Diwali offerings from Vishal Prabhu, Vandana Parashar and Raamesh Gowri Raghavan respectfully.
Diwali Day Diwali night
the coffee kiosk dog a firecracker finds
keeps his eyes shut my skirt
after Diwali —
Dad’s face on seeing
the light bill
Of course, both Prabhu’s and Parashar’s poems are referencing fireworks. In Prabhu’s piece the poor dog, (for those animal lovers among us, like myself!), is shielding his eyes from the fireworks (and perhaps wishing he could close his ears as well). In Parashar’s piece an errant firecracker has found its way, no doubt having bounced off the pavement or another individual, to her skirt. Is there something, or someone, more in Parashar’s poem? Raghavan’s poem gives us a big chuckle as an abundance of lights, probably of all types and varieties, but definitely electric, are strung up for the celebration. We can assume “Dad’s face” is certainly not lighting up upon seeing the bill – just the opposite!
From the lighthearted we move back into solemn territory as found in the following poems by Robert Michael Drouilhet, Kathy Lippard Cobb and Hifsa Ashraf.
the leaves veteran’s day parade —
still falling … the homeless man stands
Veterans Day on a different corner
Remembrance Day —
the poppy petals fall
from a veteran’s diary
Another turn of the cycle, another inevitable season of falling leaves. Is it inevitable that militaries will continue to exist? In these troubled times, it unfortunately seems so. So long as militaries exist men and women will continue to enlist or be drafted. And, for some, they will experience combat. Veteran’s Day is part of the cycle; we will be celebrating veterans living and dead for some time to come.
Cobb’s poem speaks volumes to me. I see the “homeless man”, no doubt, as a vet himself. He is standing apart from the parade-goers not only because he is homeless but, having known service and possibly conflict — perhaps in part a cause of his homelessness — he is not engaging in the pomp and festive nature of the parade. He is truly standing in a different space.
Both Veterans Day and Remembrance Day were born out of the horrors of World War I, coming to fall on Nov. 11th. The first difference in the holidays is that Veterans Day is celebrated in the United States while Remembrance Day is celebrated in the UK and in British Commonwealth nations. The second difference is that Veterans Day honors those veterans both alive and dead while Remembrance Day honors veterans who have died “in the line of duty” – similar to our Memorial Day.
Before proceeding, it is important to pause and note the significance of the poppy in Ashraf’s piece. Although the poppy was originally a symbol of the Commonwealth nations, it has long since become a universal symbol of those who have fallen in battle.
The Royal British Legion is a charity first incorporated in 1925 to aid and support British Armed Services veterans in commonwealth nations and beyond. Per their “The Poppy and Remembrance” page: “The story of how the poppy became the flower of Remembrance begins in the mud and horror of First World War battlefields. In France and Belgium, land was repeatedly fought over and blasted by millions of artillery shells.
Poppy seeds, brought to the surface by the violent churning of the earth, began to sprout in the light. Soon, millions of bright poppies covered the ruined landscape.
The sight was witnessed by the troops. They picked them as keepsakes or enclosed in letters sent home. A Canadian doctor, Lieutenant Colonel John McRae, was moved by the sight of the flowers. He had just lost a friend and colleague on the battlefront: inspired, in May 1915 he composed the poem which we know today as ‘In Flanders Fields’”.
– British Royal Legion
“The Poppy and Remembrance”
Ashraf’s piece demonstrates an internal resonance. The diary in and of itself is a remembrance. It resonates with the poppy petals that have become a universal symbol of those who have fallen in battle. The poem can be read from several perspectives, I believe, adding to its overall power and strength. Is this the diary of a vet that has perished in a war? If so, perhaps this vet may have collected and saved poppy petals in its pages in remembrance of comrades that fell prior to his/her death. Or, is this the diary of a fallen vet kept by loved ones, they having placed the poppy petals therein? Finally, hopefully, is this the diary of a vet still living?
In keeping with the notion of Thanksgiving as a true “family holiday”, I offer the following two rather light pieces from Julie Schwerin and Scott Wiggerman which pretty much speak for themselves.
family Thanksgiving — turkey trot
a “jiggle the handle” working off the weight
post-it the day after
The fun in Schwerin’s poem is that she is definitely at a gathering of family and very close friends. After all, such a note would not be posted at a formal gathering nor when acquaintances rather than friends are invited — unless they were possibly invited to a fellow Spring Street poet’s gathering, who shall remain nameless. Similarly, the fun in Wiggerman’s poem is that the “weight” gained from a turkey dinner is burned off by doing the turkey trot. Without expressly mentioning Thanksgiving, we know full well what “the day after” refers to.
We now come to another “Festival of Lights” — the celebration of Chanukah. Although Chanukah was until recently considered a “minor” holiday to the Jewish people, it has grown, especially in North America, to be considered a “major” holiday. Chanukah, in the lighting of the menorah, recounts the “Miracle of the Oil”. Legend has it that after a group of Jewish fighters called the Maccabees decisively reclaimed the Second Temple in the 2nd Century BCE, they only had enough oil to burn for a single night. The oil burned for eight days. Chanukah is seen as light defeating darkness, liberty defeating oppression. We find deep resonance in the two poems offered by Jay Friedenberg and Guy Shaked below.
heirloom menorah old people’s home
this year’s candle melts the Chanukah candles
into last year’s wax almost spent
Friedenberg’s poem speaks to the passage of tradition and ritual passed down through the ages. The menorah in this piece is an heirloom — passed on from one generation to the next. The melting wax from this year’s candles is dripping down, melting into the wax left from years gone by; thus, past and present are joined in this celebration with hints that the future will be as well.
Shaked’s piece is no less poignant. As candles burn down, burn out, so too human beings. Although the candles are “almost spent” though, they are not quite out yet. Mirroring the almost spent candles are the seniors — still with us — whose very act of lighting the candles is one of optimism and hope.
We now turn to a survey of Christmas poems, from bitter-sweet through downright comical flavors. Tom Tico, Ryland Shengzhi Li and Gary Hotham offer a fine selection of the bitter-sweet.
Christmas Eve … one more year
at the lot, the trees one less
not chosen Christmas card
soup kitchen
a hole in the sole
of Santa’s boot
For those of us who have shopped for Christmas trees, we all know the experience of the “Charlie Brown tree”. Simply these are the trees that may be small, scraggily, not what we would call “full”. We may chuckle at them, most of us feeling sorry for their lot, a few of us making a statement of sorts by buying one of them — “hey, it’s okay to be different; okay not to be part of the norm”. Given that most of us will buy their tree before, usually some time before, Christmas Eve, how many of us experience the Christmas tree lot on a Christmas Eve? In addition to the “Charlie Brown trees”, how many of us witness the plight of full, robust trees that are most probably left for the wood-chipper’s blade without having graced a home’s designated Christmas tree spot? Tico’s poem effortlessly captures this melancholy.
The Christmas card. A tradition in itself. Although it has certainly lost ground in recent years to the digital card or, in many cases, email or text w/emoji, for some of us die-hards a tradition worth keeping and sharing. I picked this card out with you in mind, and I wrote in it with my own hands. I hope you can feel my presence through the ink. I am so glad to be sharing these good tidings with you yet another year. Yes, there are those of you I haven’t seen in quite some time but that’s precisely the point — is it not? This card keeps us joined together. As the years pass, it is a common occurrence for our out-going lists to shrink. I know mine have, big-time. But what of the in-coming cards? Again, Li captures that moment of stark realization of loss. Regardless of when a person has passed since last Christmas, and whether or not there was active mourning on the part of the poet, the absence of a Christmas card heightens the loss.
On the one hand, McKeon’s poem can be read in a light-hearted manner. After all, Santa, with a hole in his boot? Not possible! I have placed McKeon’s poem in the bitter-sweet dish, however, as I think this is not a light-hearted piece at all. A soup kitchen, filled with folks who are needy and, worse, filled with those who are forgotten. Save for the rare charitable visit offering a more up-scale or sanitized Santa, who is this Santa in the poem? Most likely, the soup kitchen Santa is either an employee or a volunteer that has dressed up in a costume plucked from a box in one of the back rooms. When feeding folks is the highest priority, funds for a new Santa costume are far down the list. On an even deeper level, I think McKeon’s poem speaks to the hole that exists in providing for those without. Just my reading.
Leave it to Gary Hotham to offer us a taste of the nostalgic without the slightest hint of a heavy hand.
days before Christmas
the carol follows us
into the past
The Christmas carol, by definition a “traditional religious” song celebrating the birth of Christ. In his inimitable, ofttimes poetic way, Hotham highlights our celebration of tradition and ritual by reversing the active agent. We are not following the carol, it is not leading us on a nostalgic journey; rather, the carol is accompanying us. In essence we are leading it as we echo down the past.
We round out our Christmas survey with three lighter pieces from Tuyet van Do, Scott Mason and Amber Winter.
Christmas party — Christmas pudding —
weaving through tables our neighbors switch on
social butterflies their inflatable
Christmas goose
my brother-in-law mistakes
my behind for my sister’s
Ah, the social butterfly. That rare species that is able to flit and flutter through social situations good, uncomfortable or otherwise. From talk of cousin’s new bride, through boss’s dress down of her assistant, through Mr. Phan’s having had a bit too much at the cocktail bar. Are the social butterflies at this Christmas party spreading cheer and good vibes in accordance with the season? Or are they the superficial lot, “weaving” through the tables with not much of a care. Only van Do knows for sure. Regardless, this poem brought a solid smile to my face.
I cannot say exactly what it is about Mason’s poem I find so humorous but I laughed out loud the first time I heard it and it continues to bring a smirk to my face every time I read it. For me, “Christmas pudding” is a true exercise in Zen. By this, I mean I cannot say exactly what touches me, where or how, but I am touched nonetheless. It is a directly experiential poem affecting my senses. Soft, squishy pudding, switched-on devices, inflatables growing to stretched, taut things. All under the cover of Christmas.
Upon my initial reading of Winter’s poem, I was captured by its charm. An innocent act resulting in a very humorous situation. Make no mistake, there was nothing intentional on the part of the poet’s brother-in-law and the poet recognizes this. What might have been an awkward, embarrassing moment simply passes with good grace and humor. What more can be said about Winter’s poem. A very skilled, deft use of the double entendre in a very sweet, non-threatening way. To try and analyze it would be a disservice. Oh, the heat generated by those holiday ovens!
A fitting end to our seasonal journey is this recent piece by Ruth Holzer.
New Year’s Day
my journals
burning
From my understanding the specific practice of burning journals at year’s end is a relatively new phenomena, not tied to any one religious or ethnic tradition – although, of course, its antecedents may be found in a number of rituals spanning the globe. Is the poet sharing a moment of psychological cleansing allowing for the release of/from emotional baggage allowing her to “move on” to more positive endeavors? Or, in a slightly different reading, is the poet immersed in reviewing, reflecting on, the passing year’s notes in her journals and are those reflections metaphorically “burning” within her for what hasn’t yet been accomplished? As always, I leave it to the reader to decide.
