Column Chronicles
 
The angry poet in autumn
 
 
Frank Cotolo
November 7, 2013
 
Autumn tends to solidify my feelings about season changes. No other season changes with the subtle brilliance of autumn. Days and nights have different auras about them when summer fades and winter looms on the horizon.
 
Yes, autumn brings out the poet in me as well as it increases a desire for a larger mattress. Autumn also launches my end-of-the-year appetite, a condition that has killed many of my relatives over the course of many years' ends.
 
As healthy as autumn can be to the pyschogenic literary inspirations, it can be a bitter force filled with cholesterol, sugar and fat. Usually, it is the end of autumn that provokes the bulk of binges that make people bigger in bad sections of their bodies. Autumn comes in like a lamb and leaves like a lion, spitting us all into the dead of winter where we huddle to find security inside and outside of our mortal frames.
 
What we must do is accept autumn and attempt to maintain the soft and lofty emotions it invokes so that we can attack winter like a dragon slayer, having the ammunition of reserved strength and a lot of flannel to warm us as we battle the elements. For storms will come and they will render us senseless at times and force us to buy a lot of white food—milk and bread and eggs - when the forecast calls for us to be prepared not to travel.
 
The comforts of our abodes, or as some people call them, our homes, become more important when ill winds blow and lawn furniture turns into deadly flying weapons for anyone in their paths. Winter can be cruel and autumn does little to nothing to ready us for its terrors.
 
So here we stand on the precipice of this giant change, part poets and part warriors, partly at peace and partly enraged; indeed, we are many parts and all of them congeal to a texture of radical behavior. As the change occurs, so do the wrath of our wrangling and the swings of our arms and the force of our fists. For sure, the angry poet is fired with passion when the bitter cold covers his or her frame and bites like a thousand rattlesnakes with the venom of the atmosphere.
 
Seek not the shelter of a weak wall that cannot frame your rebellion. Indeed, rattle your saber and if you cannot afford a saber use a kitchen knife and make the power of autumn’s absence be your faith in survival. Do not repent - rebel!
 
Face the death of autumn as the birth of your brutal awareness and relentless will to survive. Do not go gently into the wailing winter, make noise, charge it with fiery flames of fire, with inner heat that burns like sixteen forests ablaze. Scream and yell and bake your emotions into ammunition that defies the icy winds and the mounds of snow and the floods of cold rain and the hail like baseballs and the lips of chapped and the scabs of wounds preserved by the fall of Fahrenheit.
 
I promise you this: you will live to see another autumn.
 
Frank Cotolo can be found hosting the talk and interview programme Cotolo Chronicles. You can send him an e-mail at this address: frank@148.ca.

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