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Eleven Ways of Looking at November

November 16, 2017 By Julie Lomoe 4 Comments

November can be the cruelest month, especially when the end of Daylight Savings Time plunges us suddenly into premature darkness. From then on, it’s a slippery downhill slope for many of us, straight through the holidays and into the New Year when we begin noticing the precious minutes of daylight that beat back the darkness once more.

Thanksgiving is just a week away. My mother died on November 20, 1970, just before Thanksgiving, and she’s always on my mind this time of year. But fortunately, I don’t suffer from seasonal affective disorder, and this November I’m feeling cheerfully upbeat. My workshops at the Arts Center of the Capital Region have been going well. First came the Blockbusting session on November 4th, and then The Alchemy of Creative Writing got off to a great start last Tuesday evening.* With three more weeks to go, I’m setting some writing goals for myself as well as my students. The chilly gray days of  November are perfect for hunkering down at my computer and conjuring up some creative alchemy of my own.

I’ve taken many workshops at the Arts Center over the years, including a poetry class taught by Julie Gutmann back in 2010. For one assignment, she asked us to write a poem following the structure of Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.” I chose to tackle November, and today I decided to post that poem here. But I hadn’t read it in ages, and I was struck by how unremittingly gloomy it is. Back then I was in the throes of a serious clinical depression, and if I were to write a November poem today, it would be far cheerier. But I’ve always written my best poetry when I’m depressed, so here it is.

Eleven Ways of Looking at November

I

Rusty crimson leaves

Cling to my smoke tree

Breathing in pale November sunlight.

II

The dead oak’s gray-brown branches

Hollowed by woodpeckers

Past Halloween

Sway outside my window

Waiting for November’s winds

To tear them down at last.

III

My mother died in late November.

I crafted a comforting casserole

From the dregs of Thanksgiving dinner.

IV

I savor the cold November breeze

Wafting across my body from the open window.

Swaddled in Polar Fleece to save on oil,

I’ve learned to welcome the encroaching cold.

V

Election Day’s finally over. News is bad

This chill November morning.

A hard freeze frosts the fallen autumn leaves

Ushering in years of deadlock and decline.

VI

The slanting sun casts shadows on the siding

Of the house across the way, silhouetting

A scrawny maple shedding yellow leaves.

Its roots snake unseen beneath our basement.

November’s high time to take it down but even so

We’ll probably let it be.

VII

A friend my age is failing. A housebound invalid,

She measures out these cold November days

In solitude, refuses visitors.

She longs for death, having a valid reason

To succumb.

VIII

Weeds have repossessed

My withering November garden.

Only stonecrop thrives

Among the shriveled thistles, chicory

And Queen Anne’s Lace. In my depression,

I let them go to seed.

IX

Daylight savings’s over in November.

Fall back and gain an extra hour

To while away in bed

Dreading another day

Of uninspired ordinary options.

X

November rain falls hard and cold

On my neglected garden

Nourishing buried bulbs of daffodil and crocus.

In spring they’ll bloom again around the graves

Of late beloved pets.

XI

People are prone to seasonal affective sadness

In this the eleventh month, so says my shrink.

But still I hold firm to nearly barren branches,

Stubborn as rusty crimson smoke tree leaves

In the November rain.

So much has changed in the past seven years. I can’t remember what election I was so upset about back then, but 2016 has been far worse. On the bright side, I’m no longer neglecting my garden. In fact I planted a bunch of bulbs this fall — parrot tulips, daffodils and hyacinths. I’m accompanying this post with photos I took last week, when a few of my annuals were still clinging to life, especially the violas. My mother’s name was Viola, so I always plant some in her memory, even though she hated the name Viola and was always known as Vi.

How is November treating you? Are you looking forward to a joyful holiday season, or do you dread the dark months to come? Either way, I’d love to hear from you, so we can compare notes or commiserate together.

*I’ll be offering the Block Busting and Alchemy classes again this spring, so if you missed out this time, you’ll have another chance.

 

 

 

 

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Comments

  1. Donna Carrick says

    November 19, 2017 at 6:04 pm

    This November has been full of gratitude for us in the Carrick household. It’s always a hard time of year for us in Toronto. We are not fans of winter, and winter makes itself known early here.

    A beautiful poem, Julie. I really connected to it.
    Donna

    Reply
    • Julie Lomoe says

      November 19, 2017 at 6:37 pm

      Thanks so much for your comment, Donna. I didn’t realize you live in Canada. Here in upstate New York, it’s been unseasonably warm, alternating with nasty cold and wind. But a few of the violas I mentioned above are still blooming and haven’t succumbed to the frost. This year I’m feeling happy and grateful too, but I empathize with those who find this a depressing time of year.

      Reply
  2. Betsy Tuel says

    November 20, 2017 at 10:49 pm

    Excellent poem, Julie, and a lovely picture of your beautiful cat. I do not mind November. I’m a lover of autumn and cooler temperatures as well as the fall colors. Now I’m wishing the rest of the leathery oak leaves would fall so a final clean up can be done. We, too, have a lonely viola blooming in one of the front gardens. As for snow, I hope it waits until after January 1, to snow. Happy Thanksgiving. We have so much for which to be grateful and thankful.

    Reply
    • Julie Lomoe says

      November 29, 2017 at 12:34 pm

      Hi Betsy. Great to hear from you. I’m okay with November too. Now it’s nearly over, and we STILL have a lonely viola blooming. It’s survived several frosts, but soon I’ll have to be ruthless and empty its container onto the beds that still need more soil and mulch. Lots of yard work still to be done here too! But today I’m hanging Christmas lights.

      Reply

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Julie Lomoe brings a wealth of mental health and home health care experience to her mystery novels, Mood Swing: The Bipolar Murders and Eldercide.

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