November Poems

Having just seen a bunch of magnificent Sequoia (semper virens) last month, I was very happy to find that poem.

That Dana is a wonder. I'd like to post this one even though it is so patently NOT a poem of November. I do love a rhyming poem that makes sense.

Summer Storm

We stood on the rented patio
While the party went on inside.
You knew the groom from college.
I was a friend of the bride.

We hugged the brownstone wall behind us
To keep our dress clothes dry
And watched the sudden summer storm
Floodlit against the sky.

The rain was like a waterfall
Of brilliant beaded light,
Cool and silent as the stars
The storm hid from the night.

To my surprise, you took my arm-
A gesture you didn't explain-
And we spoke in whispers, as if we two
Might imitate the rain.

Then suddenly the storm receded
As swiftly as it came.
The doors behind us opened up.
The hostess called your name.

I watched you merge into the group,
Aloof and yet polite.
We didn't speak another word
Except to say goodnight.

Why does that evening's memory
Return with this night's storm-
A party twenty years ago,
Its disappointments warm?

There are so many might have beens,
What ifs that won't stay buried,
Other cities, other jobs,
Strangers we might have married.

And memory insists on pining
For places it never went,
As if life would be happier
Just by being different.

Pif,

I LOVE 'Summer Storm'. Thanks for posting it.

It went right into my little personal archive/anthology. (which now contains several hundred poems!)

The following is not exactly a November poem either.... but, I love it.




For Sunday November 21, 2004:


'Spring and Fall'

to a young child


MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow's spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
-Gerard Manley Hopkins

These are great, really great poems. I had a good one all set and now can't remember where.

Here's one from Ralph W. Emerson, in the meantime...

COMPENSATION

Why should I keep holiday
When other men have none?
Why but because, when these are gay,
I sit and mourn alone?

And why, when mirth unseals all tongues,
Should mine alone be dumb?
Ah! Late I spoke to silent throngs,
And now their hour is come.

(Kind of a wet blanket, ain't he?)

For Tuesday November 23, 2004


'Westlin Winds'


Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns
Bring autumn's pleasant weather
The moorcock springs on whirring wings
Among the blooming heather
Now waving grain, wild o'er the plain
Delights the weary farmer
And the moon shines bright as I rove at night
To muse upon my charmer.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells
The plover loves the mountains
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells
The soaring hern the fountains
Through lofty groves the cushat roves
The path of man to shun it
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush
The spreading thorn the linnet
Thus every kind their pleasure find
The savage and the tender
Some social join and leagues combine
Some solitary wander
Avaunt away! the cruel sway
Tyrannic man's dominion
The sportsman's joy, the murdering cry
The fluttering gory pinion
But Peggy dear, the evening's clear
Thick flies the skimming swallow
The sky is blue, the field's in view
All fading green and yellow
Com let us stray our gladsome way
And view the charms of nature
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn
And every happy creature
We'll gently walk and sweetly talk
Till the silent moon shines clearly
I'll grasp thy waiste and, fondly pressed
Swear how I love thee dearly
Not vernal showers to budding flowers
Not autumn to the farmer
So dear can be as thou to me
My fair, and lovely charmer.
- Robert Burns

Jindagi ke drakaht se,
patton ki taraj jadhti hui yaaden
unginat paaon ke neeche kuchali,
charon dishaon main bhikhri hui

in drakhton ko intezaar hai,
pathjhad beet jaane ka,
umeed bandhi hai us
rangon se bhari bahaar ki,
jo ayegi ek din

Kaash, meri jindagi bhi
is darakhat ki tarah hoti

- Gautam (nov 2004)

Beautiful, Jjorge, I love that -- he led a full life, I think.

Gautam -- translation, my sweet, please. Nice to hear you here!


"The FESTIVAL"
(beginning stanzas)

The Cello sobs, the symphony begins,
The fever flutters in the violins,
A hundred earrings tremble in the dark,
Sleek in their velvet squat the seven sins.

And sauntering down the river you and I
Discern the baffling planets in the sky,
Through the tall branches watch the tell-tale feet
And hear the voices of the summer sigh.

The castle fades, the distant mountains fade,
The silence falters on the misty glade,
The ducal lanterns hover on the hill,
The cathedral moves in the evening shade.

Softly upon you falls the casual light.
Your hair grows golden and your eyes are bright
And through the warm and lucid Austrian air
In love our arms go wandering to-night.

Frederick Prokosch

He says "summer" but we wear velvets in November.

Oops, I forgot to post the translation...

It is a bit depressing, somehow autumn never puts me in a cheerful mood. It is in Hindi/Urdu, so some of the poetry is lost in translation but here goes....

Jindagi ke drakaht se,
From the tree of life
patton ki taraj jadhti hui yaaden
memories, falling off like leaves
unginat paaon ke neeche kuchali,
trampled under countless feet,
charon dishaon main bhikhri hui
scatter in all four directions

in drakhton ko intezaar hai,
These trees are waiting
pathjhad beet jaane ka,
for the autumn to pass
umeed bandhi hai us
and hoping
rangon se bhari bahaar ki,
for a spring full of color
jo ayegi ek din
which will come one day

Kaash, meri jindagi bhi
If only my life,
is darakhat ki tarah hoti
Was like there trees

Hi Piff, glad you liked the R. Burns poem. He certainly led a full (albeit short) life! He was very, very fond of the ladies too.

...velvets in November eh? very clever deduction inspector P!


...and Gautam! what a delight to hear from that loveable rascal!

Are you still out there old man?




P.S. message to Gautam: I am STILL planning to make the tee-shirts
with:

Jab hai saath main whiskey,
Tab jaroorat padeki kiski ??

certainly by the end of the ...



...decade.


and when I do, I'll make one for you!

Oh my gawd !! I completely forgot abt it !! I will definately try and write it up this weekend and send it across to you somehow...

Me and my stupid memory.....

Gautam,

Are you referring to the translation?

I think I already have it.

My reference to the 'end of the decade' was about MY terminal procrastination.

later, jjorge




PS today's November Poem:




'Autumn'


The air deals blows: surely too hard, too often?
No: it is bent on bringing Summer down.
Dead leaves desert in thousands, outwards, upwards,
Numerous as birds; but the birds fly away,

And the blows sound on, like distant collapsing water,
Or empty hospitals falling room by room
Down in the west, perhaps, where the angry light is.
Then rain starts; the year goes suddenly slack.

O rain, o frost, so much has still to be cleared:
All this ripeness, all this reproachful flesh,
And summer, that keeps returning like a ghost
Of something death has merely made beautiful,

And night skies so brilliantly spread-eagled
With their sharp hint of a journey - all must disperse
Before the season is lost and anonymous,
Like a London court one is never sure of finding

But none the less exists, at the back of the fog,
Bare earth, a lamp, scrapers. Then it will be time
To seek there that ill-favoured, curious house,
Bar up the door, mantle the fat flame,

And sit once more alone with sprawling papers,
Bitten-up letters, boxes of photographs,
And the case of butterflies so rich it looks
As if all summer settled there and died.
-Philip Larkin

I had promised to write it down in devnagari (hindi script) - you have it already ?

Oh no, I didn't get it in Hindi script. I had forgotten about that.

That would be wonderful!

I think that sounds awesome: a teeshirt with Hindi script (and a translation, too, right?)

I love that Bobbie Burns, Jjorge. Such a turn of phrase and so nicely rhymed. The Larkin poem takes a long time getting to those last golden lines which makes it all worthwhile.

Gautam -- You are like that tree -- full of memories and hopes for spring. We just have to get through the winter (of our discontent).


Here is an Elinor Wylie poem. It is so interesting to me to read these writers who knew each other and their strange, sometimes tragic lives. She is, I read, a lesser poet. Who decides?

ESCAPE

When foxes eat the last gold grape,
And the last white antelope is killed,
I shall stop fighting and escape
Into a little house I'll build.

But first I'll shrink to fairy size,
With a whisper no one understands,
Making blind moons of all your eyes,
And muddy roads of all your hands.

And you may grope for me in vain
In hollows under the mangrove root,
Or where, in apple-scented rain,
The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit.

fascinating poem Piff. Makes me want to read more by her.


Here is my late entry for Thanksgiving day
(been very, very busy and having a great time. Sorry to be late)

' Funny Bird'

A turkey is a funny bird,
Its head goes wobble, wobble,
All it knows is just one word,
"Gobble, gobble, gobble."
(Author Unknown)





'Turkey Warning'

Tell me, Mr. Turkey,
Don't you feel afraid
When you hear us talking
'Bout the plans we've made?

Can't you hear us telling
How we're going to eat
Cranberries and stuffing
With our turkey meat?
Turkey, heed my warning:
Better fly away;
Or you will be sorry
On Thanksgiving day.
(Author Unknown)

Haha... those turkey ditties reminds me of an old Steve Goodman song, one he made up, he said, on the spot in Seattle many years ago. The refrain was a folksy "Cook that turkey, have a little bite to eat."

Here's a nice Millay poem, one I've never posted. (Can you believe it!) Whether it is a poem of November is debatable, but it reminds me of the ending of a year.

The Return

Earth does not understand her child,
Who from the loud gregarious town
Returns, depleted and defiled,
To the still woods, to fling him down.

Earth cannot count the sons she bore:
The wounded lynx, the wounded man
Come trailing blood unto her door;
She shelters both as best she can.

But she is early up and out,
To trim the year or strip its bones;
She has no time to stand about
Talking of him in undertones

Who has no aim but to forget
Be left in peace, be lying thus
For days, for years, for centuries yet,
Unshaven and anonymous;

Who, marked for failure, dulled by grief,
Has traded in his wife and friend
For this warm ledge, this alder leaf:
Comfort that does not comprehend.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

A touch of warmth for this cold and windy first December day.

Winter Sun - Sara Teasdale

There was a bush with scarlet berries,
And there were hemlocks heaped with snow,
With a sound like surf on long sea-beaches
They took the wind and let it go.
The hills were shining in their samite
Fold after fold they flowed away;
"Let come what may," your eyes were saying,
"At least we two have had today."

Nice, Aggie. Would you be interested in starting a thread on poems for Winter? That's a beautiful one to start it off.

Aaah Pifka, I've just about exhausted my supply of winter poems and as I spend a good deal of my time here in the movie and word game forums, I really wouldn't do justice to such a thread. May I leave it in your capable hands?