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November

Elizabeth Drew Stoddard

Much have I spoken of the faded leaf;
Long have I listened to the wailing wind,
And watched it ploughing through the heavy clouds,
For autumn charms my melancholy mind.

 

When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge:
The year must perish; all the flowers are dead; The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled!

 

Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer,
The holly-berries and the ivy-tree:
They weave a chaplet for the Old Year’s bier,
These waiting mourners do not sing for me!


I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods, Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss;
The naked, silent trees have taught me this,—
The loss of beauty is not always loss!

 

This poem appeared in Poems (Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1895). It is in the public domain.

Hi Blog Friends,

 

I won't bore you (or depress you) with my many "hate' poems about Autumn and how it portends, for me, the ofttimes harsh winter ahead. I have become considerable more accepting, even welcoming of this time of year, though not near as much as a majority of folks who enthuse about donning the bulky woolen sweaters, look forward to the pumpkin spice everything, and don't seem to mind winding themselves up in scarves, tugging on the boots, and finding the perfect warm, but not too bulky gloves, knowing they will inevitably lose one of the pair at some inconvenient time during the coldest part of the winter.

So I will lean towards eating more soup, appreciating the warm cozy sweaters, stop whining about the temps or the spare, barren landscape, the brown-ness of it all. Oh heck, here's an excerpt from one of those complaining poems - I can't resist...

Best to you in November, Fern

Excerpt...

Paranoid squirrels careen

from tree to shaking tree

miserly gathering acorns

pitching excess on our heads

Everyone is looking brown and orange              

 

And the mandatory talk about

winter’s coming

and snow and ice

old accidents

new trepidations

Winters that were,childhoods that weren’t

mitten clips, chapped lips

cold feet looking for warm feet

pumpkin pies, garlic jam

raking leaves, runny noses

What's all the s--- about glorious freaking autumn? 

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Fern Suess writes, snaps, and makes art. She has written poetry for decades, founded and ran a poetry group in Woodstock, New York for seven years, and recently finished a work of autobiographical fiction entitled Father Father, which tells the story of  a woman discovering the identity of her biological father. She's working to find an agent and looks forward to sending it out into the world. She's happy with a camera in her hand, likes to write in her car or in a coffee shop, loves the smell of paint, works in mixed media, collage, and three dimensional concepts, and has exhibited in group and solo shows and outdoor installations. She's worked in outside sales, retail sales, non-profits, events management, and communications. She's freelanced for a regional newspaper, and chauffeured for a limousine service. Throughout all the jobs, she wrote, made art, and took pictures.

 

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