Robert Frost writes this line in his poem, “After Apple-Picking.” The speaker in the poem narrates their weariness after a long day of apple-picking, drifting in that in-between state of being not fully awake or asleep. Even the rhyme scheme reflects the speaker’s disorientation; the end rhymes are all over the place! This poem is like a pool of crystal clear water: you can gaze deeper and deeper into its depths, and you might even catch a glimpse of yourself staring back.
Take a few minutes to read “After Apple-Picking” at the end of this post. I promise it won’t disappoint.
Frost’s line, I am done with apple-picking now, serves as inspiration for this week’s Autumn Artfest prompt. One of our wonderful Blackbird & Company artists, Kelly, found her imagination sparking at this line. She took the apple-picking idea and ran with it to create miniature beaded red apples—so cute!
Need a refresher on what exactly Autumn Artfest is all about?
Each Monday morning, we will post on the blog a prompt for you to ponder and respond to, along with one of our artist’s renditions as an example. Every prompt is a quote or homage to a published poem, painting, or musical piece about Fall. Collect your creations in our downloadable chapbook, Six Breaths of Fall. Embrace the Autumn spirit!
Feel free to vary artistic mediums each week. Here are some art forms to consider:
- Poetry
- Painting – watercolor, acrylic, etc.
- Drawing
- Microstories
- Embroidery
- Beadwork
- Music composition
Send in photos of your creations to our social media or email. We would love to highlight YOUR breaths of fall on the blog!
~ Claire S.
After Apple-Picking
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.