October

By Bill Berkson b. 1939 Bill Berkson

It’s odd to have a separate month. It

escapes the year, it is not only cold, it is warm

and loving like a death grip on a willing knee. The

Indians have a name for it, they call it:

“Summer!” The tepees shake in the blast like roosters

at dawn. Everything is special to them,

the colorful ones.

Somehow the housewife does not seem gentle.

Is she angry because her husband likes October?

Is it snow bleeds softly from her shoes?

The nest eggs have captured her,

but April rises from her bed.

III

“The beggars are upon us!” cried Chester.

Three strangers appeared at the door, demanding ribbons.

The October wind . . . nests

Why do I think October is beautiful?

It is not, is not beautiful.

But then

what is there to hold one’s interest

between the various drifts of a day’s

work, but to search out the differences

the window and grate—

but it is not, is not

beautiful.

I think your face is beautiful, the way it is

close to my face, and I think you are the real

October with your transparence and the stone

of your words as they pass, as I do not hear them.

Source: Portrait and Dream: New and Selected Poems (Coffee House Press, 2009)

Biography

Born in New York in 1939, Bill Berkson is a poet, critic, teacher and sometime curator, who has been active in the art and literary worlds since his early twenties. He is professor emeritus at the San Francisco Art Institute, where, between 1984 and 2008, he taught art history, art writing and poetry; Berkson also served as interim dean in 1992 and directed the Letters and Science and public lectures programs. He studied at . . .

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