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The Soul in November
How she looks I cannot say,
although the petal-less heads
of goldenrod, not flaming
yellow any longer,
are something like her
stillness
and so they must be the reason
I go out, after reading
the morning’s poems
written by others
at their desks, on typewriters,
or by hand in fine black ink,
and be with the blank
desaturated truth of them
standing alone
without any topaz,
though their sun-flares
are a visible memory.
Birds circle us
from tree to tree
in their orbit of the dun meadow.
Then I walk back to the house,
to my red chair,
the laptop, the empty
white sky of the page
and remember from scratch
my own small explosion.
Poetry should be heard.
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33 comments:
Lovely comparison with the goldenrod, the closed blooms as secret as our inner hearts. There is always a sense of questioning in your peace talks with nature, Ruth. And an illuminating 'explosion' of light and insight. Thank you for starting my day with this little dollop of beauty on its head.
Ruth, goldenrod is one of my favorite images of fall, although I must say that I've never examined them after they have bloomed. Now, I want to go right out and march through the fields and roadways to examine them. Thanks!
Oh, I do like this. I like that 'blank / desaturated truth...' I like the idea of a 'visible memory'. And I really like the 'red' on your chair, a lovely touch, after the relative colourlessness and the lack of 'flaming yellow' and 'topaz'. But, even in those negatives, you of course bring forth the former and inherent blaze of colour... Tremendously well written, Ruth.
how we require the paring down in order to rebuild even our own small visions, (or small explosion!) deconstruction to enable construction. the last stanza, of course, is my favorite.
xo
erin
Lovely words and images, Ruth.
The last TWO stanzas are my favorites...because I can picture you and it!
Beautifully written "small explosion", Ruth. I envision that "white sky of the page" filling up, each "scratch" documenting a memory you bring back from your walk.
I am struck by your soul's journey: listening to other's poems, going out in nature and finding the inspiration for your own small explosion. Such a perfect description of the artist's process. My favorite words? "dun meadow"- the feel of it in my mouth as I say it and the image that jumps to mind and connects me to your world. Grazie.
Gosh, Ruth, that last photo literally made me gasp - your "own small explosion" indeed!
November does that to us. It is such a weird and inspiring month. Beautiful poem. I take it as a birthday present to me :)
To capture an explosion is to feel such fulfillment. I hope you had a little wallow, at least! :D
And in that explosion is everything, for writer and poet both. November is such a curious, inspiring time isn't it? Caught between those fall colors and the chilling breaths of winter - it invigorates the soul to take it all in.
A saturated burst of loveliness - your words make nature sing, and I must confess, add to some longing I've been feeling for old Michigan and its autumn days.
Hedge, thank you for reading and responding so kindly.
Heather, they're soft and beautiful. Enjoy!
Robert, thank you for very kind and generous response to the poem!
erin, yes, I always think of you in any white space.
Your body today is a phenomenal piece, so representative of you.
Reena, thank you, and good to see you!
Boots, oh thank you. I hope you will spend some time with us in this scene in May!
Maureen, thank you for your kind response to my poem!
Mary, thank you for reading and for your gratitude. I do love my dun meadow and am happy to share its joys with you.
Thanks, Barb! The summer I took that photo (2008, I think) the goldenrod was the best I've seen.
Sonya, Happy Birthday! :-)
Amy, getting to know this soul is difficult to describe! But I do wallow, and often. :-)
Hi, Chris! I don't know where you're living now, but perhaps Michigan misses you too! When we lived in L.A. five years, I really missed the four seasons as only Michigan produces them. Thank you for your kind words about this poem very much.
I've heard it said that winter is the season of transformation, when all the outer energies pull way in to the earth to begin the next year's gestation. Bare goldenrod are witness to the great inner work going on, and your poem reassures us that, despite the gloomy evidences, all is well. Fine job. - Brendan
"... goldenrod, not flaming yellow any longer..." and yet that doesn't block your creativity. I admire how you can make poetry in any circumstance, Ruth. You'll soon splash colors onto the bare, blank pages, with explosive imagery. That's how I see you do it, painting with words.
I love this small explosion...I love your November soul:) And I have to say I love the photos that you selected to go with your poem...that small explosion of red in the second photo brought me right back to your red chair....
I love this, Ruth.
I don't know if you have a podcast of this, but I would so like to hear you read it in your measured tone.
The words here strike in still brilliance: black ink, blank--topaz, sun, dun--
all flaring from a scratch.
Loved the line and stanza break between flaming and yellow. It made me stop and catch my breath and pay attention, a little stutter of a door latch, perhaps. Thank you.
I admire along with all other things
your ability to create the beautiful
entirety in your post as today - just essential elements.
Happy weekend to you and yours, Ruth!
Without any topaz. Wow.
'the petal-less heads
of goldenrod, not flaming
yellow any longer,
are something like her
stillness'
Love this, especially as goldrenrod is a favourite here.
Clapclapclapclapclap! Standing in the "desaturated truth" of those other poems, absorbing your own in the field--and then to return to the "white sky/ of the page" with your own small explosion. Which is not small at all, a starburst, a sunrise, your work.
Love this all, but especially the first and last.
Thank you.
November is a time for all our souls to face the changes nature throws at us. wonderful thoughts my friend. It is great you were provided wisdom from a plant visited by chance(?)
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