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It's been a long while since we had one of these going (somebody, quick, call Jazzo!  , so, in keeping with the season I'll start it off with one of my favorite Poe pieces: ANNABEL LEE
by Edgar Allan Poe
1849
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!–that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling–my darling–my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Last edited by WhitmanO'Neill; 10/26/05 12:07 AM.
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Carpal Tunnel
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And one of my favorite Frost pieces which my thoughts always stray towards this time of year when I think of New England and the Fall Foliage:
BIRCHES
Robert Frost 1875–1963
WHEN I see birches bend to left and right
Across the line of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches;
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate wilfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
(c) 1915 by Robert Frost
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My maternal grandmother could (and did) recite this entire James Whitcomb Riley poem from memory:
"When the Frost is on the Punkin"
WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!...
I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—
I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
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Carpal Tunnel
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i can but help of think of this simple childrens poem, when ever october comes round.
October’s Party
by George Cooper
October gave a party;
The leaves by hundreds came.
The Chestnuts, Oaks and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.
The Chestnuts came in yellow,
The Oaks in crimson dressed;
The lovely Misses maple
In scarlet looked their best.
All balanced to their partners,
And gaily fluttered by;
The sight was like a rainbow
New fallen from the sky.
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heyy people....am new here on this forum..just read all the above poems..liked them all...would reaally like to see more such stuff here.
have fun...KITS..
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Carpal Tunnel
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Welcome aBoard, May. Feel free to post some you know of!
Well, it's a marvelous night for a Moondance
With the stars up above in your eyes
A fantabulous night to make romance
'Neath the cover of October skies
And all the leaves on the trees are falling
To the sound of the breezes that blow
And I'm trying to please to the calling
Of your heart-strings that play soft and low
And all the night's magic seems to whisper and hush
And all the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush
- Van Morrison, Moondance
Last edited by consuelo; 10/28/05 02:44 AM.
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Carpal Tunnel
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Two more from Van Morrison
I saw you standing with the wind and the rain in your face
And you were thinking 'bout the wisdom of the leaves and their grace
When the leaves come falling down
In September when the leaves, come falling down
And at night the moon is shining on a clear, cloudless sky
And when the evening shadows fall I'll be there by your side
When the leaves come falling down
In September when the leaves, come falling down
Follow me down, follow me down, follow me down
To the place beside the garden and the wall
Follow me down, follow me down
To the space before the twilight and the dawn
Oh, the last time I saw Paris in the streets, in the rain
And as I walk along the boulevards with you, once again
And the leaves come falling down
In September, when the leaves come falling down
Follow me down, follow me down, follow me down
To the place between the garden and the wall
Follow me down, follow me down
To the space between the twilight and the dawn
And as I'm looking at the colour of the leaves, in your hand
As we're listening to Chet Baker on the beach, in the sand
When the leaves come falling down,
Woe in September, when the leaves come falling down
Oh when the leaves come falling down
Yeah in September when the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falling down
In September, when the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falling down in September, in the rain
When the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falting down in September, in the rain
When the leaves come falling down
-When The Leaves Come Falling Down
Well don't you know
How much I love you
Don't you know
How much I care
It's beyond my comprehension
'Cos I love you on the square
It's not bound by any definition
It isn't written in the stars
It's not limited like Saturn
Isn't ruled by Mercury or Mars
Oh won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
Where we'll go walking
Down by the weeping willow tree
Won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
We'll go walking to eternity
It's not modelled by convention
It isn't worshipped like the sun
It's not likened unto any other
And it will never come undone
Well don't you know
That my world is so lonely
Just like a freight train in the dawn
That's why I need to
Have and hold you
Just to keep me from going wrong
Oh won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
We'll go walking
By the weeping willow tree
Won't you meet me Lord
In the Indian summer
We'll go walking to eternity
Won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
Well before
Those chilly winds do blow
Won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
Take me way back
To what I know
Oh won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
We'll go walking
By the weeping willow tree
Oh won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
We'll go walking to eternity
-Meet Me In The Indian Summer
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l(a
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
li
ness
- e.e. cummings
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Clouds gather, treetops toss and sway;
But pour us wine, an old one!
That we may turn this dreary day
To golden, yes, to golden!
Autumn has come, but never fear,
Wait but a little while yet,
Spring will be here, the skies will clear,
And fields stand deep in violets.
The heavenly blue of fresh new days
Oh, friend, you must employ them
Before they pass away. Be brave!
Enjoy them; oh, enjoy them!
- Theodor Storm, A Song in October
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Below is one of my all-time favorite autumn poems.
Please recite it without singing.
Nat King Cole couldn't.
Thank you.
________________________________________________
The falling leaves drift by the window
The autumn leaves of red and gold
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sun-burned hands I used to hold
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song
But I miss you most of all my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall
C’est une chanson, qui nous ressemble
Toi tu m’aimais et je t’aimais
Nous vivions tous, les deux ensemble
Toi que m’aimais moi qui t’aimais
Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s’aiment
Tout doucement sans faire de bruit
Et la mer efface sur le sable les pas des amants désunis
__________________________________________ Johnny Mercer
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Pooh-Bah
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Halloween [two, three, and]
In HARlem [two, three, and]
HalloWEEN, [and] HalloWEEN, [and] in HARlem [two, three, four]
-- refrain of Sun Ra's (you guessed it) Halloween in Harlem.
(The count is counted, not spoken)
edited for ands
Last edited by inselpeter; 10/28/05 11:14 PM.
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It'll never happen - not until they pull my cold curled dead fingers away from the keyboard of my computer - a compilation of October poems with only one poem by Poe. Here is a great one...
_____The Conqueror Worm______
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!
That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
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A TALE OF THE THIRTEENTH FLOOR
by Ogden Nash
The hands of the clock were reaching high
In an old midtown hotel;
I name no name, but its sordid fame
Is table talk in hell.
I name no name, but hell's own flame
Illumes the lobby garish,
A gilded snare just off Times Square
For the maidens of the parish.
The revolving door swept the grimy floor
Like a crinoline grotesque,
And a lowly bum from an ancient slum
Crept furtively past the desk.
His footsteps sift into the lift
As a knife in the sheath is slipped,
Stealthy and swift into the lift
As a vampire into a crypt.
Old Maxie, the elevator boy,
Was reading an ode by Shelley,
But he dropped the ode as it were a toad
When the gun jammed into his belly.
There came a whisper as soft as mud
In the bed of an old canal:
"Take me up to the suite of Pinball Pete,
The rat who betrayed my gal."
The lift doth rise with groans and sighs
Like a duchess for the waltz,
Then in middle shaft, like a duchess daft,
It changes its mind and halts.
The bum bites lip as the landlocked ship
Doth neither fall nor rise,
But Maxie the elevator boy
Regards him with burning eyes.
"First, to explore the thirteenth floor,"
Says Maxie, "would be wise."
Quoth the bum, "There is moss on your double cross,
I have been this way before,
I have cased the joint at every point,
And there is no thirteenth floor.
The architect he skipped direct
From twelve unto fourteen,
There is twelve below and fourteen above,
And nothing in between,
For the vermin who dwell in this hotel
Could never abide thirteen."
Said Max, "Thirteen, that floor obscene,
Is hidden from human sight;
But once a year it doth appear,
On this Walpurgis Night.
Ere you peril your soul in murderer's role,
Heed those who sinned of yore;
The path they trod led away from God,
And onto the thirteenth floor,
Where those they slew, a grisly crew,
Reproach them forevermore.
"We are higher than twelve and below fourteen,"
Said Maxie to the bum,
"And the sickening draft that taints the shaft
Is a whiff of kingdom come.
The sickening draft that taints the shaft
Blows through the devil's door!"
And he squashed the latch like a fungus patch,
And revealed the thirteenth floor.
It was cheap cigars like lurid scars
That glowed in the rancid gloom,
The murk was a-boil with fusel oil
And the reek of stale perfume.
And round and round there dragged and wound
A loathsome conga chain,
The square and the hep in slow lock step,
The slayer and the slain.
(For the souls of the victims ascend on high,
But their bodies below remain.)
The clean souls fly to their home in the sky,
But their bodies remain below
To pursue the Cain who each has slain
And harry him to and fro.
When life is extinct each corpse is linked
To its gibbering murderer,
As a chicken is bound with wire around
The neck of a killer cur.
Handcuffed to Hate come Doctor Waite
(He tastes the poison now),
And Ruth and Judd and a head of blood
With horns upon its brow.
Up sashays Nan with her feathery fan
From Floradora bright;
She never hung for Caesar Young
But she's dancing with him tonight.
Here's the bulging hip and the foam-flecked lip
Of the mad dog, Vincent Coll,
And over there that ill-met pair,
Becker and Rosenthal,
Here's Legs and Dutch and a dozen such
Of braggart bullies and brutes,
And each one bends 'neath the weight of friends
Who are wearing concrete suits.
Now the damned make way for the double-damned
Who emerge with shuffling pace
From the nightmare zone of persons unknown,
With neither name nor face.
And poor Dot King to one doth cling,
Joined in a ghastly jig,
While Elwell doth jape at a goblin shape
And tickle it with his wig.
See Rothstein pass like breath on a glass,
The original Black Sox kid;
He riffles the pack, riding piggyback
On the killer whose name he hid.
And smeared like brine on a slavering swine,
Starr Faithful, once so fair,
Drawn from the sea to her debauchee,
With the salt sand in her hair.
And still they come, and from the bum
The icy sweat doth spray;
His white lips scream as in a dream,
"For God's sake, let's away!
If ever I meet with Pinball Pete
I will not seek his gore,
Lest a treadmill grim I must trudge with him
On the hideous thirteenth floor."
"For you I rejoice," said Maxie's voice,
"And I bid you go in peace,
But I am late for a dancing date
That nevermore will cease.
So remember, friend, as your way you wend,
That it would have happened to you,
But I turned the heat on Pinball Pete;
You see - I had a daughter, too!"
The bum reached out and he tried to shout,
But the door in his face was slammed,
And silent as stone he rode down alone
From the floor of the double-damned.
(c) 1952 by Ogden Nash
* Note: Walpurgis Night of German folklore is the eve of May 1st but this poem fits the "spirit" of Halloween as well.
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The leaves had a party one autumn day,
and invited the North Wind bold;
they put on their dresses of crimson and brown,
with their borders splashed with gold.
At first they danced to a merry tune,
but the North Wind whirled them round;
and tossed them roughly to and fro,
till they fell upon the ground.
And when kind old Dame Winter came,
she pitied the tired leaves so;
she laid them gently on the grass,
and covered them over with snow.
Alice C. D. Riley
formerly known as etaoin...
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I can't recall the title or author, but I memorized this one in public school and it's always stuck with me.
Indian Summer
William Wilfred Campbell
(thanks to Owlbow)
Along the line of smoky hills
The crimson forest stands,
And all the day the bluejay calls
Throughout the autumn lands.
Now by the brook the maple leans
With all his glory spread,
And all the sumacs on the hill
Have turned their green to red.
Now by great marshes wrapped in mist
Or past some river's mouth,
Throughout the long, clear autumn day
Wild birds are flying south.
And, if you'll forgive it, one I wrote.
Autumn Cat
The days grow shorter past the equinox;
The autumn hues of maple, pumpkin, frost
Peek through the fading leaves, and nights grow chill,
Though summer's warmth in daytime lingers still.
My cat's September too, who, day by day,
By changing shows me winter's on its way.
Her coat of black, all flecked with white and gold,
Grows thick and soft against the coming cold.
This huntress of fat mice on summer days
Looks nightwards now, and sets her golden gaze
On fluttermice who swiftly swoop in air,
By day stalks falling leaves as trees grow bare.
Though summer's warmth still lingers in her purr,
Night, frost and fox are lurking in her fur.
Last edited by Elizabeth Creith; 11/02/05 04:04 PM.
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Elizabeth, no need to ask forgiveness! I so envy people who can write poetry, and this is lovely. Don't hesitate to post more.
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Carpal Tunnel
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Winter is icumin in
Lhude sing Goddamn,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing; Goddamn.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham
Damn you, Sing, Goddamn.
Goddamn, Goddamn, 'tis why I am,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.
Sing goddamn, damn, sing goddamn,
Sing goddamn, sing goddamn, DAMM
-Ezra Pound (1915)
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What a beautiful sonnet, Elizabeth! Thank you so much for posting it.
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enthusiast
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Elizabeth, the poem is Indian Summer, by William Wilfred Campbell (1858?-1918). You original is wonderful too. I especially like the last line. Thanks for all these posted poems. (Yeah go ahead - something about "nailed it"...) Birches is among my favorites, in any season. It reminds me of swings of my own and of glad courting times with my wife (to be) in a grove of them. 
Last edited by Owlbow; 11/02/05 02:42 PM.
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Owlbow, thanks! I wouldn't have got that for the life of me. And AnnaS has posted another I like, although I think of that one more as a winter poem. (You people are all so nice about my poetry - shucks!)
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hey elizabeth..that was a nice one and definately deserves appreciation..
i have a silly question to ask...hope u wont mind..do u have a Cat??
i am looking forward to more of ur self made ones..cheers!!!
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..the one in the poem is Lilith; the others, Fiddle, Morgana and Violet.
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Ancient and Appended Notes. (2004)
Paul Nachbar (1957-)
Winter is icumin in
Softly sigh oy veh
Tho som things ar not so bad
O otters best not say
Aye the raindrops make un frown
Butte stille folkes kann smile
An tho germs can drag um down
Aye som things ar vile
Ofteems have u sung Goddamn
Who could holp yself?
Best to heere finde some frends
Whoo know ye'r no one else
An porhaps to passe the while
Dar amung the ville, the vile
O the Goddamn stoff goes on
Yes Goddamn it doess
Put y in ets propre place
Tis the baddest of disgrace
Wan saddest poetes loseth face
So herin i trye to frendlie be
Tho y seems ignoring me
Beste nu on the safest side
N mebbe nought not world war three.
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Carpal Tunnel
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Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Last edited by tsuwm; 11/04/05 04:00 AM.
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Or, as the Gunpowder Plot was recalled in the 1662 Book of Common Prayer:
Almighty God, who hast in all ages shewed thy Power and Mercy in the miraculous and gracious deliverances of the Church, and in the protection of righteous and religious Kings and States professing thy holy and eternal truth, from the wicked conspiracies and malicious practices of all enemies thereof: We yield thee our unfeigned thanks and praise, for the wonderful and mighty Deliverance of our gracious Sovereign King James the First, the Queen, The Prince, and all the Royal Branches, with the Nobility, Clergy, and Commons of England, then assembled in Parliament, by Popish treachery appointed as sheep to the slaughter, in a most barbarous and savage manner, beyond the examples of former ages. From this unnatural Conspiracy, not our merit, but thy mercy; not our foresight, but thy providence delivered us: And therefore not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy Name be ascribed all honour and glory, in all Churches of the saints, from generation to generation; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Man, they don't write 'em like that any more.
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Carpal Tunnel
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Yup. Grand juries just don't have souls.
TEd
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OP
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APPROACH OF WINTER
by William Carlos Williams
The half-stripped trees
struck by a wind together,
bending all,
the leaves flutter drily
and refuse to let go
or driven like hail
stream bitterly out to one side
and fall
where the salvias, hard carmine--
like no leaf that ever was--
edge the bare garden.
(c)1921 by William Carlos Williams
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Carpal Tunnel
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Blow On Chilly Wind
A little gray around the crown
A little hint of slowing down
She puts on some old evening gown
And dances alone
Years are hazy and days are slow
The seasons come and the reasons go
And while the wind and memory blows
She turns to stone
Sayin’
Blow on, blow on chilly wind
Go ahead and blow
Blow on chilly wind
Just let the chilly wind blow
Yeah let the chilly wind blow
Down the halls that whisper names
Through the walls and the picture frames
It’s not just old in here
It’s swirling underneath the door
And all around the cabinet drawers
It’s getting pretty cold in here
But I say
Blow on, blow on chilly wind
Go ahead and blow
Blow on chilly wind
Just let the chilly wind blow
Let the chilly wind blow
And the chilly wind will blow
I took a walk down by Shaker Square
A Christmas tree was standing there
That same old chill was in the air
And I buttoned up my overcoat
I thought of things that change and things that don’t
How they say some folks will and some folks won’t
But I say
Blow on, blow on chilly wind
Go ahead and blow
Blow on chilly wind
Just let the chilly wind blow
Let the chilly wind blow
And the chilly wind will blow
Said you must blow on, Mama
Blow on chilly wind
You must blow on
-Marc Cohn
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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!
- Thomas Hood, No!
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No heat, no sweat, No damn'd sun that blazes; No stinging insects, No lethargy, no lack of energy, No surprising pit viper that in the sun lazes. GRR-RR to the other one! 
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Sponsored by: Poetry Of Robert Frost & California Fireworks Co
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mmm, W'onderful idea, that man! - loved the Thos Hood, such clever use of language on the tongue.
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The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy.
With a load of iron ore - 26,000 tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early
The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconson
As the big freighters go it was bigger than most
With a crew and the Captain well seasoned.
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ships bell rang
Could it be the North Wind they'd been feeling.
The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the Captain did, too,
T'was the witch of November come stealing.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashing
When afternoon came it was freezing rain
In the face of a hurricane West Wind
When supper time came the old cook came on deck
Saying fellows it's too rough to feed ya
At 7PM a main hatchway caved in
He said fellas it's been good to know ya.
The Captain wired in he had water coming in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went out of sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the words turn the minutes to hours
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the ruins of her ice water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams,
The islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of November remembered.
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral
The church bell chimed, 'til it rang 29 times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
Superior, they say, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early.
© 1976 Moose Music, Inc.
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LATE AUTUMN IN VENICE
by Delmore Schwartz
(After Rilke)
The city floats no longer like a bait
To hook the nimble darting summer days.
The glazed and brittle palaces pulsate and radiate
And glitter. Summer’s garden sways,
A heap of marionettes hanging down and dangled,
Leaves tired, torn, turned upside down and strangled:
Until from forest depths, from bony leafless trees
A will wakens: the admiral, lolling long at ease,
Has been commanded, overnight—suddenly—:
In the first dawn, all galleys put to sea!
Waking then in autumn chill, amid the harbor medley,
The fragrance of pitch, pennants aloft, the butt
Of oars, all sails unfurled, the fleet
Awaits the great wind, radiant and deadly.
(C) 1965 by Delmore Schwartz
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I went for a glorious walk in the sparkling frosty ancient woods of Ty Canol today. Amazed to see many trees still bearing green leaf as well as magical arrays of autumnal colour, it brought to mind sonnet 73. And then as if by some sort of osmosis my dad quoted three words from it this evening when I was chatting with my folks - so (with apologies to Jackie!) here it is, with a subtler play on the pathetic fallacy...
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
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addict
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Gordon Lightfoot - the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
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"... when the winds of November come early."
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whenever I look up from my page
and see a burn-mark of yellow leaves,
I think of the icy winds
that will soon be knifing through my jacket.
excerpt from Billy Collins, poet laureate of NY state and former US pl.
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Quote:
"... when the winds of November come early."
"When the winds of November" 127 googlits
"When the gales of November" 14,100 googlits.
Many of the lyrics on line have "Gales of November" in quotation marks, as though it were some sort of catch phrase. But none of them I looked at had "Winds of November."
TEd
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Yessir, them winds wuz so strong, they wuz gales! The lyrics One learns only with great difficulty not to trust one's memory as it slowly fades away.
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