November thoughts, Novels old and new

There is a clear-sky anomaly lingering over Edinburgh today; draping itself about the trees with mischievous innocence and a grin, as if to say "what? I've been here all month, haven't you noticed?"
So I'm thinking of a particular poem which haunts my own work today-

"The Region November"

It is hard to hear the north wind again,
And to watch the treetops, as they sway.

They sway, deeply and loudly, in an effort,
So much less than feeling, so much less than speech,

Saying and saying, the way things say
On the level of that which is not yet knowledge:

A revelation not yet intended.
It is like a critic of God, the world

And human nature, pensively seated
On the waste throne of his own wilderness.

Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier,
The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying.

--Wallace Stevens


Also, I just finished reading Speaker for the Dead (I read Ender's Game many many years ago) and am wondering why it took me so many years to pick it up! So today tastes of November trees and half-light.

Tam Lin, New Poetry

So I'm working on a new research paper centred around the Scots ballad "Tam Lin"; something which I've been interested in doing for quite a while now. Feminism in old ballads, light the way! I'm working through some articles by Martha Hixon and Charles Butler, but there doesn't seem to have been much work done in regards to the comparison of elements between the different actual versions of the ballad. I'm hoping that I can at least bring some small insights into the piece through looking at all eleven versions side by side.

Otherwise, here is a new poem.

The Texas Dreamer Blues

The harp notes coaxed from my
stringy heart,
my little ukulele heart

have tall tells they
long to tell
to tubas and horns and
great golden bells.

I woolgather all day long
with a spindle that drops
and swirls
glittering golden threads
from the straw-strings that my thoughts
have scratched and shed.

I rustle them up,
like grub, like cornbread,
cover them with honey and pour the wine,
and wait for my home-coming
honey and
listen down the tracks
for my home to come
to come home whistling
to this little tune of mine.