November has died, of a fever, in bed
under gray blankets made of wind and dusk.
I had called out to it before, full of a strange joy,
saying,
see how the maples and pear trees
send their red-haired daughters down
like roses from the pale hands of virgins
to lie at the feet of autumn's wounded matador.
November has died, and must be sewn into
a snow-shroud to be carried by somber hearse
past the last of the violets by the garden wall,
still living
like children up past their bedtimes,
wearing brocade vests, leather shoes
and shirts with sleeves of brilliant green
waiting for the west to swallow their parents, and their pasts.
November has died, and the shade has been drawn.
A new lodger arrives, talking too loudly, eyes as bright
as polished coins, holding a glazed sweet in one hand
raised up
as if it were a goblet full of honey, taking no
notice of the widows with their black mantillas
wrapping the last cornbread cake in a cloth,
for the sad mongrel who lies down on November's chilly grave.
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Oh my goodness, no words to say how wonderful this is. Wow.
ReplyDeleteI will never look at the close of November quite the same! This is brilliant beautiful and full of imagery to literally die for: from grey blankets made of wind and dusk to waiting for the West to swallow their parents.and past. I love this poem so much Shay!!!
ReplyDeleteA great saudade and also a feel of Lorca here, but all your own, as always...you give us November as she truly is, a dying goddess and a living tapestry of all that has gone before. Your use of italics is especially impressive in this gem, which astonishes me with almost every line. The red-headed daughters, the mantillas, the sad mongrel all have a November story to tell, sharp and clear as a photo, ambiguous and suggestive as a surrealist's painting. One of your undoubted best.
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