, ,

I’m in the mood for poetry today – so why not some Emily Dickinson? Emily is one of a surprising number of poets in my literary pantheon… and I call it surprising because I don’t write poetry, unless it is by accident. Then again, I read it, and I’ve always wished I knew how apply to prose the compact effectiveness of it…

Ah well – Emily, with the arresting imagery, the trim intricacy, the stunning flashes of colour… So – shall we go for November?

Besides the autumn poets sing,
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the haze.

A few incisive mornings,
A few ascetic eyes, —
Gone Mr. Bryant’s golden-rod,
And Mr. Thomson’s sheaves.

Still is the bustle in the brook,
Sealed are the spicy valves;
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The eyes of many elves.

Perhaps a squirrel may remain,
My sentiments to share.
Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,
Thy windy will to bear!

I think she says in a letter that she considers November as the Norway of the year – or was it of the Fall? Some cold, faraway part, one supposes, a place of strange lights, and looming darkness… North itself, winter – but not quite, not yet. And while I rather like November, and the closing in of winter, it would be hard to deny it has this suspended, unfinished quality to it, caught between no more and not yet.

And what about you? How do you like November, o Readers?