Nothing Came of November
FinsburyParkCarrots
Posts: 12,223
All of this - over red leaves not falling.
walkers too weary to call them beautiful:
All of this - chaffinches on rooftops, not yet flown
and nobody stopping to call this wonderful:
All of this nothing is November, November now.
Nothing came of November. Nothing changed, no.
Only the stupid great swell of a brookbroken flood.
walkers too weary to call them beautiful:
All of this - chaffinches on rooftops, not yet flown
and nobody stopping to call this wonderful:
All of this nothing is November, November now.
Nothing came of November. Nothing changed, no.
Only the stupid great swell of a brookbroken flood.
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a desklamp. See it splinter golden-lit,
glowing strips of silver. Blow your breath
across the room. Watch all this tinsel flit
and spin in wheeling orbits. See it fall,
a brittle jingling electric reel
that merges with the carpet after all
its little viciousness. Now, go on, kneel:
Kneel and scratch what's lost. Dig in. Exhume
your grave of glitter, grave of violent light.
You shook the string, you let the ground consume
your fire effect. You've nothing left that might
attract eyes to your colours anymore.
The ground has made a dullness of your store.
of sand and ballast catch east dust. Between
Novembered birch branches, someone's kite
waves, a swollen flag of bruised green
wind jabbed like a novice boxer's chin
behind a well thrown fist. A winter sleet
falls on a traffic jam. Now, wheels spin.
Dust blows up leaves and papers on the street.
Behind nice glass, I'm sheltered. Behind
my windowpane, I look down on the sight
of all that shuffles through my open blind;
I write beside an artificial light:
I'll open up my window. I will share
the dust with you. I'll write, cold, choked, bare.
a smallish speaker in my wireless set
Pulses static, but within the slough
of wow and flutter comes a jet
of crystal tones, a voice that speaks of green
village lawns and clocks at ten to three,
that Englishness of "Never England". Keen
Upholder of this dream, I shall agree
to blank out tales of no-go grey estates
and burnt out cars stood in poor courtyards. No,
Forget what friends on 'phones cry of the fates
of England's past traditions. I'm hearing long ago
In wireless voices, clipped, without fear
that English myths belong to yesteryear.'
"burnt out cars stood in poor courtyards."
it's the same all over, indeed..
ty richard for 3 excellent sonnets..
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green