November was finishing when I found you.
Nuestro mundo global del momento parece ser más chico pero aún existe ese Ecuador. Mis navidades de niño eran durante el intenso calor del verano porteño. Como mi papá era inglés y mi mamá filipina educada en los Estados Unidos ellos celebraban esa navidad con el arbolito y Santa Claus me dejaba regalitos debajo de un pinito rociado con nieve artificial Noma.
Our present global world seems to be smaller but we still have that defining equator. As a boy my Buenos Aires Christmases happened during the intense summer heat. Because my father was English and my Filipina mother had been educated in the United States we celebrated Christmas with the tree sprayed with Noma artificial snow. My gifts appeared under that tree.
Al estar leyendo las poesías de Emily Dickinson he notado que ha escrito por lo menos dos en donde menciona el mes de noviembre. Y muy interesante es esta carta que encontré que ella escribió a su hermana Elizabeth.
When I was reading the poems of Emily Dickinson (at least once or twice a week) I have found that she mentions November at least twice. I found an interesting letter to her sister Elizabeth in which that month is mentioned:
To Mrs. J.G. Holland
early November 1865
Father called to say that our steelyard was fraudulent, exceeding by an ounce the rates of honest men. He had been selling oats. I cannot stop smiling, though it is hours since,that even our steelyard will not tell the truth.
Besides wiping the dishes for Margaret, I wash them now, while she becomes Mrs. Lawler, vicarious papa to four previous babes. Must she not be an adequate bride?
I winced at her loss, because I was in the habit of her, and even a new rolling-pin has an embarrassing element, but to all except anguish, the mind soon adjusts.
It is also November. The noons are more laconic and the sundowns sterner, and Gibraltar lights make the village foreign. November always seemed to be the Norway of the year. [Susan] is still with the sister who put her child in an ice nest last Monday forenoon. The redoubtable God! I notice where Death has been introduced, he frequently calls, making it desirable to forestall hid advances.
It is hard to be told by the papers that a friend is failing, not even know where the water lies. Incidentally, only, that he comes to land. Is there no voice for these? Where is Love today?
Tell the dear Doctor we mention him with a foreign accent, party already to transactions spacious and untold. Nor have we omitted to breathe shorter for our little sister. Sharper than dying is the death for the dying’s sake.
News of these would comfort, when convenient or possible.
Sufrí un leve shock al buscar y encontrar poesías relacionadas con ese mes en mi libro de Alfonsina Storni. Su noviembre es diferente. Es sobre un verano que se viene.
Acababa noviembre cuando te encontré. El cielo estaba azul y los árboles muy verdes. Yo había dormitado largamente, cansada de esperarte, creyendo que no llegarías jamás. Decía a todos: mirad mi pecho, ¿veis?, mi corazón está lívido, muerto, rígido. Y hoy, digo: mirad mi pecho: mi corazón está rojo, jugoso, maravillado.
INovember was finishing when I found you. The sky was blue and the trees were very green. I had been slumbering for long, tired of waiting for you, thinking you would never return. I told everybody: Look at my breast, do you see?, my heart is livid, dead, rigid. And today I say. look at my breast: my heart is red, juicy and marveled. (my translation)
More- Más — Alfonsina Storni
More Emily Dickison:
A melancholy of a waning summer
Just as green and as white
It’s full as opera
I cannot dance upon my Toes
a door just opened on the street
Amber slips away
When August burning low
Pink Small and punctual
A slash of blue
I cannot dance upon my toes
Ah little rose
For hold them, blue to blue
To know if any human eyes were near
Linda Melsted — the music of the violin does not emerge alone
The Charm invests her face
A sepal, a petal and a thorn
The Savior must have been a docile Gentleman
T were blessed to have seen
There is no frigate like a book
I pay in satin cash
El vestido blanco — The White Dress
Water makes many beds
The viola da gamba
But sequence ravelled out of reach
A parasol is the umbrella’s daughter
Without the power to die
Lessons on the piny
Ample make this bed
How happy is the little stone
Sleep is supposed to be
The shutting of the eye
I dwell in possibility
when Sappho was a living girl
In a library
A light exists in spring
The lady dare not lift her veil
I took my power in my hand
I find my feet have further goals
I cannot dance upon my toes
The Music of the Violin does not emerge alone
He touched me, so I live to know
Rear Window- The Entering Takes Away
Said Death to Passion
We Wear the Mask That Grins And Lies
It was not death for I stood alone
The Music in the Violin Does Not Emerge Alone
I tend my flowers for thee
Lavinia Norcross Dickinson
Pray gather me anemone!
Ample make her bed
His caravan of red
Me-come! My dazzled face
Develops pearl and weed
But peers beyond her mesh
Surgeons must be very careful
Water is taught by thirst
I could not prove that years had feet
April played her fiddle
A violin in Baize replaced
I think the longest hour
The spirit lasts