November Poetry Blogging

November Trees

November for Beginners

~ Rita Dove

Snow would be the easy
way out—that softening
sky like a sigh of relief
at finally being allowed
to yield. No dice.
We stack twigs for burning
in glistening patches
but the rain won’t give.

So we wait, breeding
mood, making music
of decline. We sit down
in the smell of the past
and rise in a light
that is already leaving.
We ache in secret,

a gloomy line
or two of German.
When spring comes
we promise to act
the fool. Pour,
rain! Sail, wind,
with your cargo of zithers!

Picture found here.

3 responses to “November Poetry Blogging

  1. Magnificent, brilliant, poetry. Thank you, heacatedemeter.

  2. That’s a wonderful poem; thank you. (And thanks to Rita Dove.)

    Here are two poems of mine about November. I hope the line breaks survive the blogging software. Italics indicated _like this_. The “little prayer” stanza is due to Paul Goodman, who should be read more now (for poetry and politics) than I think he is.


    Though banks of dark clouds hid the sun,
    it was being pointed at, not subtly,
    by the whole sky, which might as well have been
    a medieval panel with a gold leaf glory
    pointing at the blank wood in its center
    where some saint’s face has flaked away.

    No matter that there is no face: if we are clever
    we can tell which saint it is–the robes, the flower
    at the feet, the instrument of torture
    and martyrdom, the mascot (dog, lion, bird)…
    any one of these is better than a signature,
    if we have learned to read; although the painter
    has and had no signature, no name.

    _God has hidden his face,
    to which the whole creation points_,
    somebody said. I follow my own footprints
    back up the beach, to look a second time
    at the sea-snails’ elegant, idiot scrawl
    on the sandy bottom of the tidal pool.



    That I am alive, I thank
    no one in particular;
    and yet am thankful, mostly,
    although I frame no prayer

    but this one: “Creator
    Spirit, as you have come,
    come again”, even in November,
    on these short days, fogbound.

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