Friday, November 16, 2012

November...a parody in response to the poem September





Poetic Bloomings invites us to attempt a Parody: Simply put, a parody poem is one that pokes fun at another poem or poet. It could “mock” a song lyric (which is basically musical poetry). It can draw inspiration to answer another work. Everything is fair game; the more irreverent, the funnier (or more pointed) it will be.

Mine is really just a response to the poem September by: Helen Hunt Jackson (it always bothered me that she did not share her 'secret' about that day. So, I am sharing November's secret.

The golden rod is brown now
The corn is in its bin
The trees in apple orchards
Are stripped of rosy grin

The gentians bluest fringes
Are shriveled, brittle fray
In broken pods the milkweed
Has flung its silk away

The sedges spill their harvest
In stilted meadow-nook
And asters by the brook-side
Have dropped into the brook

From frosted lanes of morning
The children’s breath-clouds rise
The ditch is all a-flutter
With birch-leaf butter-flies

By all these gilded tokens
November days are here
With autumn’s dismal weather
And autumn’s sullen tear

But none of this gray tinting
Which makes November drear
Can dim November’s hinting
Of Christmas drawing near

And I will share my secret
Of dull November’s guile
For soon it will be Christmas
And that is why I smile

© Janet Martin

September

by Helen Hunt Jackson

  THE golden-rod is yellow;
        The corn is turning brown;
    The trees in apple orchards
        With fruit are bending down.

    The gentian's bluest fringes
        Are curling in the sun;
    In dusty pods the milkweed
        Its hidden silk has spun.

    The sedges flaunt their harvest,
        In every meadow nook;
    And asters by the brook-side
        Make asters in the brook,

    From dewy lanes at morning
        The grapes' sweet odors rise;
    At noon the roads all flutter
        With yellow butterflies.

    By all these lovely tokens
        September days are here,
    With summer's best of weather,
        And autumn's best of cheer.

    But none of all this beauty
        Which floods the earth and air
    Is unto me the secret
        Which makes September fair.

    'T is a thing which I remember;
        To name it thrills me yet:
    One day of one September
        I never can forget.




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