This Poem was Submitted By: Mell W. Morris On Date: 2005-10-17 12:23:59 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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The Last October

Every year, wind brings smells of autumn: burning leaves and memories of attempts to oust the sadness. The wind begins to rise from whispers to wails, from soft breaths to rales of inhalation, to gusts of musty Materiel and lashes of ochre cliffs. Wind transports seeds and hurls them with little clumps of sod into crevices and niches and then deep beneath roots of the mountains where granite relents. From above, the aroma Of apples and pumpkins assails our senses and we are drunk with words for October. The waxen blue of breadfruit leaves draws my country heart and I succumb to a helpless lowering of my head at sunset when there's A half hour the color of regret. Then come autumn rains which blow oak leaves into  spotted patterns on the porch. Harvest done and we feel a grand return for our efforts, never noting the daily bounties He sends. I am mesmerized by the regret of sunset, watching the season prepare to leave and I feel granite chips in my blood. Eliot told us that "April is the cruellest month," but I believe he was wrong for Only in October does nature wither and die. And a strong wind sighs, burnishes me to a bight, brilliant shine, more luminous than a nova so you may see me again... Next October.

Copyright © October 2005 Mell W. Morris

Additional Notes:
The quote by Eliot is from "The Waste Land." Although American, Eliot continued with the British style such as the spelling of April.


This Poem was Critiqued By: Elaine Marie Phalen On Date: 2005-11-07 12:21:53
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mel, I'm on the edge of getting sicker ... don't know what's hit me (flu or hyacinth-bulb poisoning?)! So I can't critique in much dept, although at least I'm managing to do it a bit earlier than usual. This is a spectacular poem, both in terms of its imagery - we see it, taste it, inhale it like a rare warm cider - and the theme woven throughout. Autumn brings a certain resignation but you make of regret a beautiful sorrow. I like the way you link the subterranean granite with the chips in the heart; we are connected, flesh to stone. Even the wind is humanized, becoming "rales" like someone ill and gasping. Like the year and the season, the ending and culmination. But there is also a fulfilment - all efforts lead here, to this mowing-down of things planted in earlier hope. It's sad to see the landscape stripped of energy but it is also fitting. This is the plan and purpose, after all. It appplies to human beings as much as to cornfields. There must be that harvest, whether of vegetables or of souls. Harvest done and we feel a grand return for our efforts, never noting the daily bounties He sends. Aha! Point well taken here. We may believe we're in control but the truth is that we draw power from Elsewhere. "Grand return" speaks of grandiose self-praise. This is, of course, our mortal folly. In the last analysis, the brilliance of your burnished-nova metaphor is what lingers. "So you may see me again" relates both to speaker and season. Here is faith in the continuity of life, and the resurrection of that which has served its purpose. New crops will arise from these old fields; from the weakened shells of all beings, another creature may yet be born. Poignant, yes. But in a sense, also immensely comforting. You've given us the total package here: very well written, moving in content, fresh in metaphor, delightful to the ear. It sits where it ought to sit - top spot - on the finalists' list right now. Take Care, Brenda


This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2005-11-05 18:14:37
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.82143
Mell, My God you have a way with words. They conjure up a deep sorrow for the death of another year on the calender. I like to call it a time of renewal.. Gather your strength and begin anew.....smarter, wiser, more..... We'll leave the past, past..... no stanza is better than another. they are perfectly wonderful love you and your poem. dellena
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2005-11-05 14:10:16
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.92308
Mell, I have put off critiquing this piece to the very end. There is so much within the balance of this piece that it would fill a novelette were I to actually speak to it. Contained within are the struggles, triumphs, loss, beauty, of living and the hopes and despairs of beyond. It is far too much for me to attempt, it needs no critique. I will speak only to the philosophy of content, and nothing that would break my heart. The Last October – Indeed. Every year, wind brings smells of autumn: burning leaves and memories of attempts to oust the sadness. The wind begins to rise from whispers to wails, from soft breaths to rales of inhalation, - It is poignant how the intrusion of the localized drift of life meets the stanchions of nature, and draws upon the soul to interpret those visions. “Burning leaves” meet “soft breaths” and “memories flood the senses with “autumns” signatures, that of the season, and that of life entering that season. For we know, after autumn is winters hardships, and beyond are springs rebirth, with life, we presume to know, and all we really know is the beauty which we are leaving. to gusts of musty Materiel and lashes of ochre cliffs. – There is a metaphor built in, of impassable “ochre” cliffs, that will be passed, on “musty winds” that herald the next moment of living and rebirth, beyond where we can see. Wind transports seeds and hurls them with little clumps of sod into crevices and niches and then deep beneath roots of the mountains where granite relents. – The seeds of what is living, spawns in places unseen by all except the wind of life, a new generation of living, once the winter has paused for the season. There is a certain Greek Tragedy feel to such a life, that while there is “wailing heard out of Zion” (Jeremiah 9:19) – there is life, so resilient and purposeful, clawing for its next spring, where none may see it, and only hope and faith may believe its perseverance. From above, the aroma Of apples and pumpkins assails our senses and we are drunk with words for October.- I often think on these things, of the sweetness of this life, of the “drunkenness” of joy in living, “aroma” the strongest senses of memory, brings such joys to my mind, and more often than any other, reminds me of my finite visit to this beautiful world. The waxen blue of breadfruit leaves draws my country heart and I succumb to a helpless lowering of my head at sunset when there's A half hour the color of regret. – How can such sweetness be so impervious to such regret? I have my hope carried in a basket that neither Clotho nor deities may address directly. “Color” indeed you chose well the word, coloration for the precious that is. Then come autumn rains which blow oak leaves into spotted patterns on the porch. Harvest done and we feel a grand return for our efforts, never noting the daily bounties He sends. – the harvest, it is at the end of the preparations, the plowing, the planting, the care and loving, the feeding and nursing, the watering and waiting, it is the “return of our efforts”, and the autumn leaves remind us that it has been harvest time, and reminds us that the next moment is carried beyond the harvest as we live with the “bounties” of our preparations, of our life. I am mesmerized by the regret of sunset, watching the season prepare to leave and I feel granite chips in my blood. Eliot told us that "April is the cruellest month," but I believe he was wrong for Only in October does nature wither and die. – I wonder at the “regert of sunset” for I see sunsets as a phase of beauty, but then, when I am weeping, the moment becomes more powerful than beauty- transgresses and oppresses, “granite chips” in the blood, dragging the soul down, and knowing there the sunset has taken us. “October does nature wither and die”- indeed again, it is the façade of autumn that would lead one to such conclusions. It is, however, a façade. For the coming death prepares the grounds, waters the arid, allows the tired to rest, and calls to the abundance of rebirth. Mell, I hope I don’t regret the sunset, with this caveat, no matter where it leads, I will miss the beauty to be, too much. And a strong wind sighs, burnishes me to a bight, brilliant shine, more luminous than a nova so you may see me again... Next October. – I have seen the Nova that is you, it has brightened the skies, it has prepared me for beauty, it has taken me into sunsets where beauty has starkly laughed at my predetermined life line- I will see you next October, and you cannot prevent that rebirth. Recall the wind blowing seeds to the crags and mountains, there is those that grow where you cannot view them. Many of us can, and so it is with all of us. So it is with all. Your wisdom has out done you. What a beautiful read, what a beautiful image, this October.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Troy D Skroch On Date: 2005-11-01 21:33:08
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.90000
Mell, This is precious writing. The human experience wrapped in natural metaphor, carried by the lines and delivered with the smooth motion of a leaf being conducted by the breezes. For me, it's just lovely. But I have always loved the contrast of October. This is a work of art. And I don't thing anyone could have written a more powerful ending to this poem. It is "splentacular." "And a strong wind sighs, burnishes me to a bright, brilliant shine, more luminous than a nova so you may see me again...Next October." Bravo! LOL! To be polished by the wind's sighs. Great! Tonight, I will leave you with a quote that makes a lot of sense to me. It was penned by a man named Edward Abbey, who spent most of his life fighting for the preservation of the southwest. With regard to your writing, I find it very fitting. "The writer speaks not to their audience but for them, expressing their thoughts and emotions through the imaginative power of their art." Bless you for being, T
This Poem was Critiqued By: Turner Lee Williams On Date: 2005-10-18 13:18:32
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mell–Even if you’re lamenting triviality, you would do so in a style that’s so your own. Again, this is all innate on your part. Moreover, as a voracious reader of quality literature, you present an eclectic and philosophical/humbling view that’s openly accepting/nurturing. The majority of TPLers are drawn to your ability/willingness to address the rawest of the raw in a matter of fact vein. Most stoics would have withered at a fraction of your setbacks/hardships, but with an unbelievable constitution, “The Last October” indicates you’ve decided to continue to combat your maladies; “Eliot told us that "April is the cruellest month," but I believe he was wrong for Only in October does nature wither and die. And a strong wind sighs, burnishes me to a *bright*, brilliant shine, more luminous than a nova so you may see me again... Next October.” This is my favorite bit and speaks to “Personal Helicon”-smile; “...to gusts of musty Materiel and lashes of ochre cliffs. Wind transports seeds and hurls them with little clumps of sod into crevices and niches and then deep beneath roots of the mountains where granite relents. “ All this selfish reader cares is that this piece inference everything positive toward scribe continuing to write, and any reports of her leaving/retiring were greatly exaggerated. Thanks for my overdue “Mell Fix”-smile. TLW
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2005-10-18 10:17:00
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
MellO, What a find! I was gone all day yesterday and didn’t find this this morning until I looked at my list’s bottom. There was I became drunk with your words. This morning, coffee is my drink, but my eyes drunk, swimming in your October. As always there are layers in your work, you bring me news of your star, as it suddenly increases in brightness, then fades to its original luminosity. Only the supernova explodes and becomes no more. And thus, sitting in the light of your brilliant nova, I am reassured. It gives light to this room, still dark though it is morning. Every year, wind brings smells of autumn: burning leaves and memories of attempts to oust the sadness. The wind begins to rise from whispers to wails, from soft breaths to rales of inhalation, to gusts of musty In the fall, we turn within to the inner light. You can smell the burning leaves, being transformed into their original carbon state. You give us whispers, then let us hear your rales. Rales are alarming, more so than novae, as symptomatic chest sounds. Only heard in terminal illness. “Materiel” is a word from my history class. It was spoken by Frank Pavia, our high school wrestling coach, about the way the Pyramids of Egypt were built. He said, eschewing any supernatural means, that they were wonderful examples of use of “men and materiel.” Ochre cliffs which ‘lash’ seem cruel. Wind which “hurls” clumps of sod suggest to me that the wind coughs up residue which has lain in ennui, in repose, but is now sloughed off. What are we, in our bodies, but “clumps of sod” meant, eventually, to be blown about until we is dust, once more. In our recumbent state we sense of scents of apples and pumpkins, the fruits of summer and early fall, the association is with dunking for apples and carving pumpkins. Here is no revel in the celebrations which attempt to deny the darkness of the season which we brighten with candled-jack-o-lanterns, or parties in which we seek to mouth the ‘fruit’ of the Garden of Eden. The relenting granite “deep beneath” – how beautiful! Granite of mountains is also that of the gravestone. It's sandstone, a sturdy stone used for stone and brickwork. It is the substance which is unchanging. “Of apples and pumpkins assails our senses and we are drunk with words for October.” Your hunger for language and appetite for words informs this poem, though noir, it lifts my spirits. It's so effulgently you, Mell. October is a bittersweet month for me, as you know, the sweet made sweeter by the contrast of extreme pain. I can’t pass a single leaf without remembering “Holy Fragments” or “October Reflections.” “But the trees were gold.” I feel connected with you in this poem, as my own heart is ripped and sewn again, every fall, especially in October. We are hungry for the fleeting life which empties itself in the colors and scents of this month, “assails our senses.” We are reminded of the ephemeral qualities of our lives and pleasures. We are united, Mell, in our love for fall, sandpapered fingers touching each fine leaf, whirling in the wind of our poetic minds. I felt this to be a poem in which you want to sweep me along with you, in our mutual drunkenness with words “for October.” The waxen blue of breadfruit leaves draws my country heart and I succumb to a helpless lowering of my head at sunset when there's Maybe no one will draw this analogy of “waxen blue” as I do with someone who no longer breathes. In death, the skin is waxy, and a shade of bluish grey. When the speaker lowers her head at sunset to observe “A half hour the color of regret” she realizes that there is no turning back or changing anything. The lowering of her head is an acknowledgement that nothing can be done for what has passed. Her “country heart” is still drawn by breadfruit, which joins the apples and pumpkins. Breadfruit leaves are known to be good for ailments of the heart. The blue of them draws her eyes, for sustenance and to prepare her heart for the “half hour of regret.” And then, the warmer tone of the poem observes the chill rains, the spotted patterns on the porch. What are these observed patterns but the cyclical woof and weave of life and death? Then come autumn rains which blow oak leaves into spotted patterns on the porch. Harvest done and we feel a grand return for our efforts, never noting the daily bounties He sends. When harvest is complete (life or agriculture) we are aware of the totality of its yield. Looking back it is easier to see the ‘daily bounty’ which may have escaped our notice, for we believed that there is always more, just ahead. This poem is written in the now. What is there in the accounting of now? For a while, the speaker/writer is caught in “regret of sunset” -- of awareness that such sunsets in life cannot be retained, must move the speaker toward the darkness which always follows the setting of the sun. The most telling line, to me, is “I feel granite chips in my blood.” It’s as if the granite chips are connected to the place “deep within roots of the mountains” where the writer has released parts of herself with the “clumps of sod.” The dual imagery of granite and sod evokes a deep melancholy in this reader, for both are elements found in a cemetery. Eliot told us that "April is the cruellest month," but I believe he was wrong for Only in October does nature wither and die. Again, it is unmistakable to me that this is a noir poem, and yet, and yet – with a light at the end of it. This recognition of mortality is visible and palpable around us this month. The celebration of the Dead on Hallowe’en, the putting on of the macabre to deny death’s reality. How to celebrate life in the midst of physical decline, of the half hour of regret at sunset? And the increase of the spirit’s “bright, brilliant shine” which makes the writer more luminous to us? You have given us this time to spend with you, with your thoughts in this poem. It is splendor and richly harvested wisdom from a mind nonpareil. And a strong wind sighs, burnishes me to a bight, brilliant shine, more luminous than a nova so you may see me again... As your title “The Last October” makes me weep aloud, I also retain great joy of knowing that I cannot lose you! The love of our friendship is eternal and as kindred spirits we shall meet again… Next October. I see you now, in these white-hot words. Your words not weaken but are like a welder’s torch, emblazoning these words of hope in my heart. With love always, Joanne
This Poem was Critiqued By: Lora Silvey On Date: 2005-10-18 00:14:19
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mell, No need to address your structure etc for as always it is impeccable. You have given us such a delicious treat in this well penned offering. I will not choose one line over another for it would negate the whole, this is so vibrant, alive and in the reading I found myself back to a time of youth when October and all she brings would rouse a restless inside my being. I also find that brief time just before sunset when all things are enchanted find the magic mesmerizing. If I may be so bold to say, you have plucked thoughts from my mind and as only you can, have articulated what the native heart feels, senses and embraces. There is music in your description, earth’s song, Great Spirit’s heart and we IMHO are so honored to have one such as you enrich us with your apt descriptions of such wonders that most turn blind eye to. Thank you so much for allowing me the honor to read and critique this piece of perfection. Warmest always, Lora
This Poem was Critiqued By: marilyn terwilleger On Date: 2005-10-17 15:22:55
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hi Mell, You must know my favorite subject to write about is nature so reading this piece is a real treat for me! You have penned all the wonders of October and I can relate to each line. I also wrote about Oct. this month simply because it was my husbands favorite time of year and if you read it you will see why. Every year, wind brings smells of autumn: burning leaves and memories of attempts.....beautiful first stanza...good internal rhyme with 'wails/rales' to oust the sadness. The wind begins to rise....'whispers to wails & from soft breaths to rales of inhalation from whispers to wails, from soft breaths is outstanding to rales of inhalation, to gusts of musty Materiel and lashes of ochre cliffs. Wind...the 'to gusts of musty material and lashes of ochre cliffs' transports seeds and hurls them with little.. complete the thought perfectly....the next three lines are just clumps of sod into crevices and niches and amazing...I love the notion of clumps of sod into crevices and then deep beneath roots of the mountains niches the roots of the mountains where granite relents ( so where granite relents. From above, the aroma creative to use 'relents' here! Of apples and pumpkins assails our senses and we are drunk with words for October.........what a great line this is...'drunk with words!' The waxen blue of breadfruit leaves draws my country heart and I succumb to a helpless...these next three lines give this reader a glimpse into your lowering of my head at sunset when there's thoughts as winter approches A half hour the color of regret. Then come.....'color of regret' is a memorable phrase that I won't easily autumn rains which blow oak leaves into forget! spotted patterns on the porch. Harvest done and we feel a grand return for our efforts, never noting the daily bounties He sends.......I wonder if we ever give enough thanks to Him for the bounty I am mesmerized by the regret of sunset, He provides? It is natural to go through each day just watching the season prepare to leave and.......accepting His gifts without a pause to thank Him adequately. I feel granite chips in my blood. Eliot I always say my prayers when I go to bed and I always give told us that "April is the cruellest thanks and I go to church every Sunday but is that enough? month," but I believe he was wrong for I was unaware you read Eliot....I do, as well. And I don't think April is cruel either...unless you count the times my Only in October does nature wither and flowers thought it was time to come out and then got bit by Jack Frost with his brush of ice! die. And a strong wind sighs, burnishes........these lines are so hopeful...I did feel some pathos as I was me to a bight, brilliant shine, more reading the previous lines...but here I feel hope and a sense luminous than a nova so you may see me of well being. In fact there is more hope in these lines than again... any you have written in quite a while. Yes we will see you next October! Next October. This entire piece is just lovely and I am so glad to have seen it soon enough before it disappeared! I will be spending Xmas with Sherri in Ft Worth this year and hopefully I will be able to call so we can chat. I e-mailed you recently did you get it? I usually get tons of e-mails every day but the last few days I have not had any so I am wondering if my e-mail is broken! I was just worried because you had been so quiet but now I see you are writing and critiquing so things must be going fine. Keep thinking those positive thoughts...they sometimes do us more good than any medicine that is prescibed. Hugs & blessings....Marilyn
This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2005-10-17 14:55:34
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.58333
Halloo from north of Mount Everything. I have spent the day in the beautiful sunshine. Maples fiery red to golden gold light my scape. Birds chirp as if winter were optional. The dogs bask in the warm glow of your favorite star (me :) ) I love October. April is cruell. But not as cruell as life. Keep your cards up. Rootin' for Astros over Cards. tom
This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2005-10-17 12:44:46
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
I was just about ready to say...hey typo when I looked up the word bight. That's an interesting word never having heard of it before. BTW, what is the British style of spelling April? Having been brought up in Canada I've never heard of a British style for the word April (not even my Canadian dictionary does). Anyway, your piece reminds me of Fall here in Canada. When I was a kid we used to pile up leaves and jump in them. When my parents moved to Florida when I was
the seasons no longer existed but I'm back into it now. No breadfruit trees here though. October only withers and dies in the Northern latitudes. October does bring about pumpkins and apple smells too. Did you know that you can actually smell snow in the air before it happens?
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