November In Words And Music

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 I have written several times previously about what a dull month November is to me: the clocks have just gone back, heralding the onset of long, dark evenings, the weather usually starts to turn from autumnal to wintery, and everything seems to be on hold until December arrives, bringing the promise of Christmas and good times with loved ones. Unlike the USA, who have Thanksgiving Day, for us it’s a kind of nothing month. I wondered if I am alone in this view, and it appears not: there are several poems by better writers than me which make my point for me. It is quite a while since I wrote about this, so I thought I’d share a few of them again – at the risk of showing myself up!

Something I found on Google kind of sums it up: a website shared a piece it called 7 Classic Poems Of Autumn, which it described as being “a selection of classic poetry by Shakespeare, Frost, Keats and other dead poets.” I must admit I hadn’t realised that death was a criterion by which poets were judged: that Robin Williams movie has a lot to answer for!

As before, the first poem I’ve chosen to share is by Thomas Hood, and is simply called November:

No sun – no moon!
No morn – no noon –
No dawn – no dusk – no proper time of day.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member –
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! –
November!

 He doesn’t really like this month either, does he! At least he has shown me that my feelings about November are nothing new: Hood lived from 1799 to 1845, so that poem is almost 200 years old. Encouraged by finding this I thought I’d expand on this theme, as it is fertile ground for some very descriptive (and dismal!) poetry. My apologies to those of you in the Southern Hemisphere, who no doubt are basking in sunshine and increasing temperatures and must be wondering what I’m on about: I guess your equivalent must be May, when autumn turns to winter for you.

Thomas Hardy is probably better known for his novels, but he also wrote poetry. Indeed, his final novel, Jude The Obscure, was published in 1896, and from then until his death in 1928 he only published poetry – he is rated by many as one of the best twentieth century British poets. Here’s an offering from him, entitled At Day-Close In November:

The ten hours’ light is abating,
And a late bird flies across,
Where the pines, like waltzers waiting,
Give their black heads a toss.

Beech leaves, that yellow the noon-time,
Float past like specks in the eye;
I set every tree in my June time,
And now they obscure the sky.

And the children who ramble through here
Conceive that there never has been
A time when no tall trees grew here,
A time when none will be seen.

There is the beginning of a theme developing here, I think: it’s rather bleak, isn’t it! One poem that did strike me in both its beauty and brevity was this one:

Listen…

With faint dry sound,

Like steps of passing ghosts,

The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees

And fall.

That is called November Night and is by a poet I’ll admit to not having heard of before I first posted some November poems. Let’s face it, if you’d heard the name Adelaide Crapsey you’d remember it, I think. I rather like that little poem and didn’t just choose it so that I could mention the poet’s name! I found this biography of her and it seems she lived a brief and tragic life. This poem was written when she was already aware of her own mortality, having been diagnosed with tuberculosis of the brain lining, and that makes it all the more poignant for me. The imagery of passing ghosts assumes extra significance when you know that she is one herself. In just 20 words she has captured perfectly the essence of November, as I believe it.

Having had my interest piqued by my Google search, I thought it might be an idea to seek out the work of some of those aforementioned ‘dead poets.’ Firstly, here is Robert Frost’s offering on this month, which is called My November Guest:

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise

 

 

23 thoughts on “November In Words And Music”

  1. Excellent poetry and good music to warm this very chilly November evening in New York! 🎶
    I don’t mind November quite as much as you; as you mentioned, we celebrate the beautiful holiday of Thanksgiving and one of my son’s birthdays, as well. For me, the killer month is February. Even though it’s my birth month and there’s also Valentine’s Day, I can’t stand February. It’s bitterly cold and dark and, for the shortest month, seems to go on forever! Can you tell I’m not a winter person? 🥶
    Let’s hear it for May! 😊

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  2. The Adelaide Crapsey poem is what short poetry should be. Words with more meaning than their number. And I’ve added Gabrielle’s November to my list too. Pardon this presumption too? /You’re quite correct Clive / Today we may hit 25! / Not down in the mouth / ‘Ere way down South / Here we’re grin full with gratitude / Living with/in the bright latitude. /😬🙄

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  6. Great post, Clive! Beautiful poems too, I like the short one shape like a pine tree. And I like the two jokes at top and bottom. I like November, but of course, i like every month. Every thing that each month brings has something to enjoy and, in my case, to capture in photos. Even the gray weather and crispy leaves. 🙂

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  7. The pure white sheet of snow on the ground
    My ears perking up to a fire crackle sound
    The air so fresh and clean it cannot be seen
    Except where breath is turned to steam
    Harken to the voice of November
    For it shall soon be cold December

    For Clive, written this nite.

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  8. I hate to rub it in but November here in Spain is a lovely month. Not so stupid hot, mostly sunny days, and a bit of welcome rain. I get to see a gorgeous sunrise and sunset every day. I have been reading outside in 23C for the past three weeks. November in Canada however was not great some years. Too much rain on the west coast and snow on the prairies. Both good songs and I loved the poems.

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