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.