Requiem for November

[DieterM]

Death,
flickering with countless candles,
and tombs,
and memories of war—
they are strange Prom Queens to your ball,
in their borrowed Oscar de la Renta dresses,
as you guide them down
your naked lanes
on their stiletto heels,
shivering like the whores
of the Bois de Boulogne,
their wild hairdos
brushed by your unceasing gusts.
Trees crane their unbejeweled branches
and twist their twigs.
There’s still a whiff of pumpkins
on your skin,
but more and more,
you smell of roasted chestnuts,
domestic coal, and rotten leaves.
You dish out sorrow and regret
for breakfast,
give us clouds and mist
for lunch,
and finally, we sup
on your delightful tears.
Through the grey light
of your declining days,
we wander down, down, down
toward the end,
glimpsing early necklaces,
bracelets and tiaras dangling
over the street vales,
sparkling tokens of hope
you loaned from your young sister.
And when they’re lit, we know
that you are dead and gone.

[Hawkman]

Hi Dieter. This one's a bit of a mixed bag. It has problems in the opening: that "death," dropping like a lead brick, is way too heavy. I'd start with the next line, but I'd cut, "and tombs". You've told us in the poem's title that it's about November, and in this centenary year, no one can escape the WW1 reference of remembrance associated with "memories of war."

The next line beginning with "they" isn't working for me. Who, exactly, are "they?" How are "Death flickering with countless candles and tombs and memories of war" "strange prom queens in borrowed [...] dresses?" The personification isn't working for me. If the whores on the Bois du Boulogne are the prom queens it makes more sense. Apart from the failure to connect with the opening quite well enough, the middle section reads rather well, although I'd suggest you cut the 'be' from unbejewelled as it's one too many syllables and jars a bit. Again, it is a bit unclear who the subject of the personification actually is. November? Death? I'm uncomfortable with the "whiff of pumpkins on your skin". Just cut the on your skin and the line reads much better. The idea that November smells of these things is perfectly reasonable.

The references to the dangling jewellery work until you throw "hope" in there, which I'm not sure I follow. Expectation, promise... (or a word akin) might be better than hope. They make me think of christmas decorations, so "loaned from your young sister" doesn't quite feel right. The close works fine though.

There's lots of good stuff in here, but I feel you need to make the personification of November more consistent.

Live and be well - H

[Mohammad Ahmad]

Reading on the poem:
please be tolerant and don't be annoyed to my comments:

It is rather complex, however, I tried to find the beginning point of the missing thread, but I felt it is perplexed since you don't make clear pauses, between your movable interpretations, which carry the incomplete stanzas so the piece has rather ambiguity. Thus, as I see that your thought excessively tends for a changeable mode, or it is sporadic.
You described those who wear the Oscar de la Renta dresses as whores, and then you immediately for Trees crane to root them (brushed them).
There still " a whiff of pumpkins in your skin"?
What is the relation of pumpkin to those?
It can be interpreted only in one way— that's its yellowish colour which carries the death nature or shape.
((but more and more,
you smell of roasted chestnuts,
domestic coal, and rotten leaves))
Here there is a successful of shift- transference as you said " the rotten leaves" and it is conveying for me as if someone walked desperately inside the woods where the rotten odor coming out the dead trees reminding by death which it is the point you want to conclude.

((You dish out sorrow and regret
for breakfast,))
Here the very successful image you tried to fix out through the poem and it is helpful to read, because regret and sorrow often related to funeral and death.
((give us clouds and mist
for lunch,))
Here your thoughts gradually begin to be understood or to be completed, since death is a miracle of the universe that never can be decoded so perhaps the mist when it vanishes revealing something could help us.
((and finally, we sup
on your delightful tears))
Here also there is successful transformation of the humanbeing can be shedding light to joint the atmosphere.
((Through the grey light
of your declining days,
we wander down, down, down
toward the end))
Grey light!! It can refer for death but is awkward!
The rest has obvious meanings and need not to clarify.
I guess that you trying to describe a certain catastrophic moment you passed through of someone of your relatives or someone is rather beloved.
Really, I confronted with some confusion but I brilliantly and intelligently read on the poem.
My advice to you is:
1- don't make rather excessive description which causes an irrelevant interweaving into the poem, or try to make pauses.
2- I advise when you are going to change the shift, try to do separated remarkable foots, because when you immediately have gone to touch the very high point of a ceiling without taking into consideration the base value, you made it a source of a flooding liquid, the readers will not easily understand the idea you try focusing on.

[DieterM]

Hawkman & Mohammad Ahmad, I can see where your mixed feelings come from. I guess you're right, there's a bit too much personification going on in this poem. I should have personified the month of November only, it is the main subject of the poem after all. To personify death, tombs, and memories of war as well is overdoing the thing. All ends up mixed and unclear. I will have another go at it as soon as new inspiration comes my way ;-)
I will have to find a means to keep death and tombs, though. Somehow. I don't know the traditions of other countries, but in France, there are two important public holidays in November: Nov. 1st, All Saints' Day, where people honour the dead (quite wrongly so, by the way, because they should honour the Saints and wait for All Souls' Day on Nov. 2 to celebrate their dead relatives), and Nov. 11, where they celebrate the end of WW I. For rather obvious reasons, we don't "do" Nov. 11 in Austria, though, which leaves us only with Nov. 1st. But this is far more important in my homecountry than in France. We really do honour our dead, bringing flowers and lighting candles. We stand at the graves, some say a little prayer, some merely remain silent, thinking of the wonderful moments they shared with their dear ones when they were still alive. Our cemeteries look almost lively all through the winter months, when the candles' flickering light sort of dances on the graves.
Anyway, the main confusion comes from the different "protagonists" of the poem, as Hawkman has pointed out. That I shall correct.
By the way, Hawkman, you were right too when writing that the last few lines reminded you of Christmas decoration; they're not lit yet in the streets of Paris, but they're already up and biding their time. Hence the loan from the young sister; December is, after all, a month younger than November ;-)
I'll work on this poem again. Promised. Just can't say when.
Thanks to both of you, in the meantime, for reading and commenting.

[blank|verse]

Hi Dieter. This is an enjoyably playful and imaginative poem.

I love the mention of the ‘Oscar de la Renta dresses’ – in fact, I think the imagery relating to fashion is the main strength of the poem; it’s very original to juxtapose November and death with glitz and glamour.

And there’s something about the playful, name-dropping style that reminded me of Frank O’Hara, like 'The Day Lady Died' (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171368). (Coincidentally, as I was checking the Poetry Foundation website, they also had this poem by Charles Simic (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171689), which, like your poem, personifies death.)

But, as others have pointed out – and you seem to agree, I don’t think the poem is quite there yet.

Could I suggest changing ‘whores’ to the less loaded ‘girls’; the mention of ‘Bois de Boulogne’ indicates to the reader what sort of girls these are clearly enough (and I’ll be honest, I’ve never heard of BdB, but I’m sure I’d understand what you mean because of the other contextual details).

There’s a slight grammatical issue when you say:

as you guide them down
your naked lanes
on their stiletto heels,

which makes it sound like Death / November (the ‘you’) is wearing ‘their’ stiletto heels. If you’ll excuse me, perhaps rephrasing it like this would work, with a bit of extra tinkering:

they are strange Prom Queens to your ball,
in their borrowed Oscar de la Renta dresses
and [colour?] stiletto heels,
shivering like the [whores / girls?]
of the Bois de Boulogne,
their wild hair[dos?]
[brushed?] by [your?] unceasing gusts
as you guide them down
your naked lanes.

although I think you might have to add another adjective before ‘stiletto heels’ to maintain the rhythm and make that line stronger; perhaps you could namedrop another fashion designer instead of stiletto heels altogether?

I’m not keen on ‘hairdos’ – it’s correct, but the word is just a bit dated; simply saying ‘hair’ covers it. And maybe instead of ‘wild’ you could namedrop a singer or actress with wild hair – I don’t know, Brigitte Bardot (although that would be alliteration overload coming after Bois de Boulogne) or Amy Winehouse? Hmm, I’m sure you get the idea and can think of someone more appropriate.

Also, I think ‘brushed’ sounds too well-mannered, like it’s actually helping tidy their hair. Or, if that’s what you’re implying, maybe ‘styled’ would work. And, in my revised version, there would be too many ‘your’s together, so I’ve marked the one before ‘unceasing gusts’ to be cut. (But ‘naked lanes’ is a great, seedy image!)

Elsewhere, the trees’ ‘unbejeweled’ branches’ is brilliant in context (overlooking the fact that they wouldn’t move as much without their ‘jewels’ because they’re not as heavy; I suppose they do still move in gusts of wind though!). And the jewellery imagery at the end of the poem is very fitting as well.

I’d consider revisiting, or cutting completely, this section:

You dish out sorrow and regret
for breakfast,
give us clouds and mist
for lunch,
and finally, we sup
on your delightful tears.

as well as the last two lines, which I think are superfluous.

Anyhow, do keep working on it, Dieter, you have a great idea that is worth pursuing.