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Jon Horton

Monday, December 19, 2005

The Moods of November

jackson hole blog

by j.r. horton

november 2005

i feel poetic today. it’s november and the only time of the year where Scorpios can be honest about how they feel, and that isn’t a simple thing. my life has been, in a word, bittersweet and, from what i understand from others born under that sign, their lives can be described in much the same way—complex and bittersweet.

the feelings that infuse me during this month are always very mortal, carrying me into considerations about what it means to be human. To illustrate those feelings and thoughts, i am again going to offer some more of my poetry.


It’s a new moon in November this night
and the river’s running cold, down the hill
the wind blew cold this afternoon too
and the music i hear is as bitter as love
and painfully sweet as the time and memories i kill

A voice sings to me lying here in the dark
and to the moon waxing up there in the sky
as it splashes its light around like tears
flying from the faces of God struck dancers
that fall to wash my moon struck sill

My lovers were few but my losses were great
for my life was engorged until i was undone
by my appetite for each one’s very breath
and i fear that i may have suffocated them all
one by each faithless one

I remember their touch and the taste of each mouth
and my slippery fingers and slippery hands
and the heat of their guts and smell of their hair
and their names come back to me even in dream
one by each faithless one

And the moonlight falls through the window like iron
shaking the floor beams and shaking my heart
for i cannot forget and God! i still feel
and the man on the radio weaves at his song
in a November night sharp and heartless as steel


Full winter moon
so far from summer and you
but the light and night are much the same
as i wake to your passionate kisses

There was a pane of moonlight on my bed
and a presence in the room
which had slipped somehow in from summer
flying from a cold and cruel night
where i hear passing footsteps
crunch by in brilliant snowlight

Kiss me
I remember i said in summer
and your penumbra of black hair descended
to put your mouth on mine
to offer your little tongue
as my head and heart were enveloped
in the darkness of your kisses

I see you turn your chin up
offering your very center
then you are quickly up and ready to run again

There’s blood on your bed you said

Then i feel the slipping highway going blue
beneath us as we drive on into evening
and the golden grain gonecopper green
is undulant beneath a red-streaked and dying sun

Again you are in the distance
one hand on hip one working at your art
blue blouse crimson skirt baseball cap
gilded grass and lowering sun
and in the distance dun colored hills
empurpled mountains and violet shadow
dissolving from black line and smudge
to pool between the trees in the last of the light
your favorite time of day

I saw this through the pane
of cold moonlight cast upon my bed
and then exhausted from the work of memory
dropped back into the slipping dream
that always paces just ahead of its dark sister


Crimson leaf littered
scalloped at the edges with evening ice
this black-backed silver pool
drains from the heart of the hollow hill
bathes colored stones set
by strong spring currents

The cold and glittering
flares of Orion
find this translucent running ribbon
and brilliantly set themselves
among stones giving up their colors
to the quickly coming November night

Autumn ice

The trees along this darkening course
have hearts that go to sleep
as hearts must from time to time

Winter is the hardest season
it comes not for good
but for good reason


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