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dVerse — Poetics 428 — November

November creeps
labile, weak,
clinging to memories
of warm-vigored nights;
then casts them to
bitter cold winds where
tears fall in sheets.

Careless deer, callous
to lilies’ needs,
nibble their leaves,
leaving stark stalks
that cannot feed
summer’s hopes
of rainbow starbursts.

Spent frogs, turtles,
and furry crawlers
dig or weave beds,
hoping for pleasant
dreams of new songs,
minnows, and spring

Somber rust sets in.
Creaking joints loosen
as naked trees dance
in the diminishing sun.
Summer’s been put away.
Life huddles in shivered gloom —
but it is far from done.

Image:  “November,” by John Atkinson Grimshaw.   John Atkinson Grimshaw (1836 – 1893) was a Victorian-era painter, notable for his landscapes, usually known as Atkinson Grimshaw.  He was born 6 September 1836 in Leeds. In 1856 he married his cousin Frances Hubbard (1835-1917). He died 13 October 1893, and is buried in Woodhouse cemetery, Leeds.

Sanaa is today’s host of dVerse.  Sanaa says:
For today’s Poetics, I would like you to write a poem about November and tell us what it means to you. I aim for this prompt to be wide in scope. You can discuss what this month reminds you of, political or non-political. It can be a seasonal poem if you like. You can also use a painting for inspiration or perhaps a song. There are so many! As long as you stick to the parameters of the prompt, you are fine.

46 thoughts on “dVerse — Poetics 428 — November

  1. How mesmerizing, Lisa. I’m amazed by this poem, specifically these lines:

    “Somber rust sets in.
    Creaking joints loosen
    as naked trees dance”

    Perfect scenery of November. And such a great song to include. ❤ ❤

    Liked by 3 people

  2. A brilliant artist of his time and beyond .. John Atkinson Grimshaw! I find his work to be most compelling .. the use of brushstroke .. color and the moodiness of the theme.. especially in this painting is wondrous! You give November a whole new definition with this poem, Lisa. Love it! 💝

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Right? Shouldn’t new years be in November, for as your poem elucidates, something is ending but thinking of beginnings in burrowed sleep dreams. (And it might be a good time for a party. The days are getting shorter.) Your poem pairs so well with the Grimshaw painting. This Guns n Roses song totally new to me, but there it is again- nothing lasts forever, and November can really show that.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. Indeed, life is not done, whatever challenges we face! Beautifully put. I love the image, this reminded me of walking midnight streets with my husband when we first met, around this time of year – I had forgotten that!

    Liked by 2 people

  5. Your words are steeped in November colours and chills, Lisa. It is a time when we cling to memories or warmer nights, although I do love snuggling down in the warmth of my bed on a November night, a kind of mini-hibernation, like the animals in the middle stanzas of your poem. I particularly enjoyed ‘Somber rust sets in’ and the ominous:
    ‘Life huddles in shivered gloom —
    but it is far from done.’

    Liked by 2 people

  6. Nicely written, capture the sense and specialness of the month. November contains my birthday, and my Dad’s (which gets more special to me as he gets on up there in years) but has never been a month I much cared for all in all. Of course, my experience growing up in Ontario would be similar to Michigan…dark days, cold weather but seldom real winter nor the bounty of winter birds to enjoy yet, fall colors gone, stores getting crowded, colds and flu setting in… Down here, not my fave month either but weather’s quite hospitable and what little fall color we see south of the 30th parallel starts to shine the brightest.

    Liked by 2 people

  7. All the sensations of November felt here and transmuted to poetic “somber rust” — beautifully done, Lisa! I feel like the furry critters longing for spring already 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

    1. 🙂 I saw a furry caterpillar heading towards the road the other day when checking the mailbox. I put a piece of mail in front of fuzzy and transported the critter to a sheltered spot in the yard.

      Liked by 2 people

  8. I like your blog post and also he comments afterwards. Fascinating to see what parts of your lovely poem resonate with different people. My favorite stanza is

    “Spent frogs, turtles,
    and furry crawlers
    dig or weave beds,
    hoping for pleasant
    dreams of new songs,
    minnows, and spring

    There are a lot of spent frogs where I live in MA — and some of them are human. Let us rest and dream of spring transformations…

    Liked by 1 person

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