For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Thursday, 27 October 2011

November Comes Early

Another poem I wrote in my head in bed last night. I feel inspired at the moment. I wonder why? Perhaps it's something to do with this season of 'mellow fruitfulness' - garnering the rich pickings of the heart. Though I'm not sure my heart is yet ripe enough. Are our hearts ever mature? I'm jumping the gun a little on November but, hey, I've always been rather impatient. It's a trait of those born under the Scorpio sign. Yes - my birthday is next month too.

November

Now it's begun: the slow slide towards winter.
Heating pipes cough and splutter into life.
Men recall heydays with a summer wife.
Logs burning in the grate crackle and splinter.
Stores full of Santas, but no queues are forming.
Shoppers fret about the financial crisis.
Shopkeepers worry how loaded the dice is.
Kitsch snow scenes out of synch with global warming.
In the woods, chestnut gatherers, mushroom pickers.
Lovers longing for one final tryst
Before the forest floor is damp with mist
And the earth dank as a harlot's knickers.
Wellingtons. Warm, woolly underclothes.
And on the briar one last, wanton rose.

10 comments:

Kiwi Nomad 2008 said...

It's always interesting seeing the differences between northern and southern hemisphere imagery. When November arrives, we feel like we are on the front doorstep, about to step out into warmer summer days...

George said...

Absolutely magnificent, Robert. Love the last line, "on the briar one last, wanton rose." Having just had my own birthday nine days ago, those words ricochet around the walls of my memory.

Happy Birthday to you. And, no, I don't think hearts ever mature. For that, we can be grateful. All of the great wisdom maps seem to point in one direction: Away from preconceptions of maturity and back to the unbridled, spontaneous spirit of the heart, the hearts we had as children.

The Weaver of Grass said...

I love that one last wanton rose. I have one just outside my window - she is called Dark Lady.

Val said...

i love the change of seasons. great poem! happy birthday :)

am said...

There is something about this season that inspires me, too.

Women recall heydays with a summer husband.

One of Richard's last paintings was titled "The Forest Floor."

Lovers loving for one final tryst
Before the forest floor is damp with mist.

Only now do I see/hear the rhyme. Subtle.

What date is your birthday?

The Solitary Walker said...

Kiwi - Coincidentally, at first I'd considered for this poem the line 'Couples dream of a Bondi Beach-style life'!

Thanks, George - Glad you liked it. I had fun composing it in my head in the dark. Was awake for hours tossing and turning. I must admit, I'm pleased with that last line too! Your comment about 'the unbridled, spontaneous spirit of the heart, the hearts we had as children' made my pulse race and spirit soar. Thanks for your birthday wishes.

Oh, Weaver Pat - a rose called Dark Lady! That is just too wonderful.

Val - Thanks for visiting, and for your birthday wishes.

And am(anda) - Thanks, as always, for your response. How interesting the title of one of Richard's last paintings was 'The Forest Floor'!

The exact date of my birthday is the 13th.

gists said...

This is a cheeky little sonnet with "the earth dank as a harlot's knickers" and the final "wanton rose". "The slow slide" put me in mind of Larkin with "the long slide/ To happiness" in "High Windows".

The Solitary Walker said...

Thanks, gists. My real wife has just pointed out that I probably subconsciously got 'summer wife' via Leonard Cohen's 'gypsy wife'. I've been listening to a lot of Leonard Cohen lately, as you know.

Ruth said...

The poem is a gem, more so picturing you composing it in bed in the dark (I assume in the dark). I am in the almost-dark, smiling, and maybe you were smiling in the dark too. I really love how you, in this poem and generally, embody earthiness and a bit of bawdy sensuality. Even a rose is wanton. Nicely done.

Dominic Rivron said...

The poem you wrote in your head in bed on 26th October 2011... I am often amazed by how the internet (and a blog) can serve as a sort of external hard drive for the brain, searchable by others.