The Best of November
The month of November is generally assumed to have the least to recommend it of any month In the year—hence Torn Hood's well-known No' verses. But has November no good side? Competitors were invited to find out the best of November and relate it in not more than twelve lines of verse or a hundred words of prose.
I was considerably taken aback by the large number of competitors who rushed to the rescue of November's reputation, in spite of the fact that November, 1954, has gone far to justify all the nasty things that Hood said. The quality of the entries, also, was unusually high. I expected a gentle stream of light verse; but what 1 got was almost a flood of genuine poetry and poetic prose which would make a splendid qnthology. Not that fun and light-hearted originality were lacking, either. The parodies included a couple of McGonagalls from Bernard Wake and J. R. Sisson, a Patience Strong prose poem from D. R. Peddy and a good entry in the Berkshire dialect from the Rev. R. C. Moore.
There was, I found, a tendency to rate November excessively high.* 1 could not agree that it is 'most blessed of all months' and I did not appreciate 'the sensual satis- faction of dragging the feet through crackling mounds of brown autumn snow'; but I could understand how T. E. Caton's 'erstwhile escaped 'convict' prized a November fog.
Prose entries were inferior, I thought, not only in numbers, but in quality, though 1 much liked those of Nan Wishart, M.M., and Colin Prestige. The prizes, however, must go to five competitors, chosen with great difficulty from a score of others almost equally excellent, whose efforts were in verse. The winners, who share the prize equally, are G. J. Blundell, Iris St. Hill Mousley, Kenneth S. Kitchin, Oswald Clark and Ongar.
PRIZES (G. J. BLUNDELL)
. God-like, he comes in autumn's bright-hued car, Scattering gold from every bush and tree, Soon to evoke the pyrotechnic star, The rocket's picturesque artillery.
Gold spent, he hangs the bough with pearls of rime, Cloaks ruinous wall and street with samite mist, Then, vying with his sister, summer time, Looks smiling down from eyes of amethyst. And even when, in boisterous mood, he screams An urgent warning, loud upon the wind, To bid us seek the hearth, our fireside dreams Make him a giant, rough of voice, but kind.
(IRIS ST. HILL MOUSLEY) November is the ghost of a great lady— Pale and so quiet, clutching her widow's weeds, Trailing along the hedge her silver hair Yet braiding in it still her scarlet beads, Warming her• sombre corsage here and there By the brave showing of a yellow flower.
Untarnished are her gossamer fine laces: Lightly she steps across the urgent streams, Through the stripped orchard and the shaven field Where, Midas-touched, the lonely, proud elm gleams, In quiet woods where bracken dreams, and mushroom-fragrant air Enchants the peaceful hearts of those who wander quietly there, Tired of Spring's poster-paints and Summer's thick oil-palette strokes.
November'has the gentle charm of those who know life well; Relishes delicate subtleties of the year's maturest wine: It is the magical sweet twilight, vesper canticle Intoned with misty breath, mysterious fore- taste of divine Eternal purpose, to whose calm we can with faith incline, Secure from the burst pipes of death, and Winter's icy hell.
(OSWALD CLARK) Come, November, our souls are sated With clash of colour and surfeit of light, Pencil the exquisite long immolated Beauty of bone that the summer hated, Bring us the dark where the stars arc mated And milk flows over the breast of night; Daylight enough for thy drawing, November, Darkness enough and to spare for these-• Book and candle and glowing-ember, Boards to browse over, cards to remember, And older than all our games, November, The hide and seek of the Pleiades.
(oNciAR) November! Now again the trees Will blaze defiance at the cold, And brighten summer's obsequies With swathes of crimson, orange, gold; The sharpened air of certain days Will bring again a special light, And scenes long-known afford our gaze New images and new delight; Leaves will bestrew the forest lawn , And rustle as we wander there, And frost exhilarate the dawn, And wood-smoke sweeten all the air.
Previous page
