Below – Lana Marandina: “November”
“My November Guest”
by Robert Frost
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.
“November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.”
Below – Dmitri Bogachuk: “Fjord” (photograph)
“November comes And November goes”
by Elizabeth Coatsworth
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.
Below – Natalia Chekotova: “Tired leaves”
This Date in Literary History: Died 1 November 2006 – William Styron, and American novelist, essayist, author of “The Confessions of Nat Turner,” “Sophie’s Choice,” and “Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness,” and recipient of both the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize.
Some quotes from the work of William Styron:
“A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading.”
“Depression is a disorder of mood, so mysteriously painful and elusive in the way it becomes known to the self — to the mediating intellect– as to verge close to being beyond description. It thus remains nearly incomprehensible to those who have not experienced it in its extreme mode.”
“Writers ever since writing began have had problems, and the main problem narrows down to just one word – life.”
“We each devise our means of escape from the intolerable.”
Art for November – Ruslan Khais: “Sycamores. November”
A Poem for November
by Sara Teasdale
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
The world is tired, the year is old,
The little leaves are glad to die,
The wind goes shivering with cold
Among the rushes dry.
Our love is dying like the grass,
And we who kissed grow coldly kind,
Half glad to see our poor love pass
Like leaves along the wind.
Below – Daniela Savini: “Like leaves in the wind”
by Adelaide Crapsey
Listen . . .
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
Below – Jacobien de Korte: “Look up 1” (photograph)
“In a Station of the Metro”
by Ezra Pound
The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Below – Suzuki Harunobu: “Woman Admiring Plum Blossoms at Night.” Critic Richard Aldington has suggested that Pound was inspired to writer “In a Station of the Metro” after seeing this ukiyo-e print in the British Library.
Art for November – Metra Stelmahere: “The trail home II”
by Amy Lowell
The vine leaves against the brick walls of my house,
Are rusty and broken.
Dead leaves gather under the pine-trees,
The brittle boughs of lilac-bushes
Sweep against the stars.
And I sit under a lamp
Trying to write down the emptiness of my heart.
Even the cat will not stay with me,
But prefers the rain
Under the meagre shelter of a cellar window.
Below – Beatris Burgoin: “Fantasma”
Art for November – Michael Jones: “November Shadows”
Musings in November: Walt Whitman
“The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation: The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen closer, I find its purpose and place up there toward the November sky.”
Below – Katharine Nikki Dalton: “Geese in Flight”
Art for November – Kateryna Ivonina: “November flash”
“At Day-Close in November”
by Thomas Hardy
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.
Below – Emily Carr: “Odds and Ends”
A Poem for November
“November, Remembering Voltaire”
by Jane Hirshfield
In the evenings
I scrape my fingernails clean,
hunt through old catalogues for new seed,
oil work boots and shears.
This garden is no metaphor –
more a task that swallows you into itself,
earth using, as always, everything it can.
I lend myself to unpromising winter dirt
with leaf-mold and bulb,
plant into the oncoming cold.
Not that I ever thought the philosopher
meant to be taken literally,
but with no invented God overhead
I conjure a stubborn faith in rotting
that ripens into soil,
in an old corm that flowers steadily each spring –
not symbols but reassurances,
like a mother’s voice at bedtime
reading a long-familiar book, the known words
barely listened to, but bridging
for all the nights of a life
each world to the next.
Art for November – Elvira Kravenkova: “November Sun”
Welcome, Wonderful November
Below – Ellen Fasthuber-Huemer: “November”