Notebook: November 30
What does autumn sound like? It sounds like the rustle of old addictions. It sounds like the whisper of a snake in the emotions. It sounds like rain, drumming fingers of misfortune against the sloped roof of the porch. Coffee brewing at 3.27 am. Frost crisping the matted brown grass.
It sounds like old songs from the '60s, '70s, and '80s. It sounds like Howard Jones, like the Cure. Autumn looks like those electioneering faces, the polished feasibilities, seeking to be ensconced in higher office. Autumn sounds like the cool kids honing their toneless tone-poems to predictable perfection.
Creak of a hinge. Rust in the afternoon sky. Antiphons of football. Steamed-up windows at a cousin's house, where the turkey and stuffing are ridiculously abundant.
And for all this, nature is never spent, there lives the dearest freshness deep down things ... Autumn sounds like Dylan Thomas, like Gerard Manley Hopkins, like Baudelaire, like Poe. Autumn sounds like Reverend Jennifer's blessings.
Toil of the rake, blast of the leaf-blower. The gross tedium of headlines. A sweet silence of snow gracing Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Like resignation, like rebellion, autumn has a ring, a tenor, a shrill dull note that implicates the unsuspecting.
Autumn sounds like the blaze and crackle of a real fireplace. It smells like woodsmoke on a frosty night. Harvest, blight, forest, night, exultation, grace, disgrace. Tick of a clock in a chilly kitchen in a suburb north of the city. A lone dog baying at some distant moon, some ineffably intimate star.
Poetry by Thomas D
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Written on 2019-11-30 at 10:24
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