Being November

I picked out four orangey yellow peppers,

skins smooth to the touch
and took them back to your place
with the rest of the shopping.
We spent the reminder of the day

playing on site, reviewing the way words
were woven into one another.
I stayed to dinner, watched a video
before I set off home,
pulling that saggy bag-on-wheels

that looks like an old woman
who has run to seed.
Crammed with today’s shopping,
she looked overweight and dumpy.
I hate walking home alone at night.

Being November it wasn't warm.
I shivered and wished
for gloves and company.
I jumped at shadows and noticed
every detail of leaves in lamplight.

On the corner by the scrap store
a young woman was wearing
long legged boots and a mini skirt.
She moved back into the shadows
as I passed and seemed to look down.

She must have been cold in such scant clothing
and I wondered how much she cost
or charged to finger that smooth skin
and what rough life or abused childhood
had led her to risk the horrors of this night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Blackbirdsong]

This poem is like a Native American story. I'll explain. Most Native American storie are about the journey, not the outcome of the journey. There are always lessons to be learned in these stories, but they take place while journeying from place to self and back again. This poem reminded me of that, since she is obviously taking a physical journey, but also a personal journey with her reflections on the things and people along the way, even about herself. I really liked this one. Thank you for sharing your journey.

[J]

I always feel overwhelming sadness for these women of the night, too. I always think "What if I was a woman and I had to do this to make ends meet?" And the thought always terrifies me.

Your first three stanzas seem to serve as a counterpoint to the last three--you worrying over what groceries to get and fussing over poetry: two symbolic luxuries, don't you think? I think so. Poetry back in the day was only accessible to the educated, noble few...

Great poem, Ness. It really is.
J

[jeRRy.whaLLey]

there is a chill in this poem which you captured in your walk and inner talk and outer look that dares to see what others fear to say - the cold and alone, the marginalized and dispossessed are all out of balance with the warmth Love and Compassion would give - here you've painted your misery of walking alone at night with the bigger brush of those hungry ghosts that haunt the night - no one should be cold and alone!

[Chris Bighorse]

Such remarkable catastrophy.

Being November it wasn't warm.
I shivered and wished
for gloves and company.
I jumped at shadows and noticed
every detail of leaves in lamplight.

This is by far my favorite stanza. Most of what you see isn't written here. Incredible use of lyrics.

I feel, however, that this isn't finished? I can't put my finger on exactly what I'm trying to say. Maybe I just wanted to read further and should look to your other poetry. This is great work.

[Emily B]

Casual but profound. There are so many more questions than answers. We think through this. Trying to justify walking alone on a cold night. Trying to justify the life of the young woman. I wonder what the young woman thought of the stranger walking down the sidewalk. And then there's the title, what is it like being November? My mind darts a dozen ways reading your words. That's the mark of a meaningful set of words.

[W.k.kortas]

Wonderful example of how the indirect route is often the best way to convey a powerful message or create emotion. Blackbirdsong is (to my way of thinking, anyway) spot-on with the notion that this piece is about the journey--or, perhaps, a snapshot of a point on the journey--as much in the spritual sense as the physical. Fine slice-of-life piece of writing.

[PianoandPage]

an interesting portrait of a day

i love the lines... very sculpted but without seeming contrived in the slightests. true talent there.

the end seemed a little abrupt. left me going "wait... what happens next?"

i love your observations and how you chose to phrase things. the title also is perfect. it implies that the author feels like she encompasses everything.

[Cdnsurfer]

Hey Vanessa. I liked this quiet reflection on life, a scene, a moment, a thought, a night. Interesting metaphor for a woman as well, in this piece, smooth of skin but peppered and acidic inside. Something about this sorts of pieces that are deeper than the skin, and makes you re-read them for the clues. Well done, my friend. Rob