Quantos Poemas Emily Dickinson Escreveu Para Susan?
“Porque eu não poderia parar para a morte“, de Emily Dickinson, é um poema repleto de simbolismo, significado profundo e linguagem rica. Dickinson usa vários elementos literários para transmitir emoção enquanto leva os leitores pela jornada do narrador.
Quantos poemas de Emily Dickinson foram publicados?
Nascida em Amherst, pequena cidade perto de Boston, Massachussetts, Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (1830-1886) foi uma das grandes poetas americanas do século XIX. Denominada por alguns como “a grande reclusa”, Emily nasceu e morreu na mesma propriedade, uma mansão na rua principal de Amherst, sem nunca ter se casado.
Again and again, she would tell all the truth but tell it slant, unmooring the gender of her love objects from the pronouns that befit their biology. Later in life, in flirting with the idea of publication, she would masculinize the pronouns in a number of her love poems — “bearded” pronouns, she called these — to fit the heteronormative mold, so that two versions of these poems exist: the earlier addressed to a female beloved, the later to a male.
Pequeña Galería de Poemas Foto
A tempest of intimacy swirled over the eighteen months following Susan’s arrival into the Dickinsons’ lives. The two young women took long walks in the woods together, exchanged books, read poetry to each other, and commenced an intense, intimate correspondence that would evolve and permute but would last a life- time. “We are the only poets,” Emily told Susan, “and everyone else is prose.”
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The electricity of Dickinson’s love would endure, coursing through her being for the remainder of her life. Many years later, she would channel it in this immortal verse:
Como a morte é vista pelo eu lírico?
Susie, will you indeed come home next Saturday, and be my own again, and kiss me as you used to?… I hope for you so much, and feel so eager for you, feel that I cannot wait, feel that now I must have you — that the expectation once more to see your face again makes me feel hot and feverish, and my heart beats so fast — I go to sleep at night, and the first thing I know, I am sitting there wide awake, and clasping my hands tightly, and thinking of next Saturday… Why, Susie, it seems to me as if my absent Lover was coming home so soon — and my heart must be so busy, making ready for him.
Even in her ardent anticipatory letter penned before Susan’s return, she questions for a moment whether the love that stands as the central truth of her daily being is real:
Mis libros de Emily
Their uncommon love, the splendors and sorrows of which I explore further in Figuring, would become the pulse-beat of Dickinson’s body of work, which radicalized its era and forever changed the landscape of literature — a shimmering testament to the fact that love, longing, and the restlessness of the human heart are the catalyst for every creative revolution.
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“She loved with all her might,” a girlhood friend of Dickinson’s would recall after the poet’s death, “and we all knew her truth and trusted her love.” No one knew that love more intimately, nor had reason to trust it more durably, than Susan. Where Austin’s love washed over her with the stormy surface waves of desire, Emily’s carried her with the deep currents of devotion — a love Dickinson would compare to the loves of Dante for Beatrice and Swift for Stella. To Susan, Dickinson would write her most passionate letters and dedicate her best-beloved poems; to Susan she would steady herself, to her shore she would return again and again, writing in the final years of her life:
Visitas
The following autumn, Susan Gilbert married Austin Dickinson, largely to be near Emily, and they moved into the Evergreens — the house erected for the newlyweds by Austin and Emily’s father, across the lawn from the Homestead, the house where the lovesick poet lived.
Al crecer entre los noventa y los dos mil, mi formación lésbica se basó principalmente en internet (eso es para ahondar en otro momento y en un texto aparte). Pero también estaban algunos libros y sus autoras, como Virginia Woolf, Gabriela Mistral, Gertrude Stein, sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Y, por supuesto, Emily Dickinson. Sus nombres aparecían en foros y páginas web alojadas en Angelfire o Tripod, a los que entraba, con cierto pudor, para ser parte de un valioso descubrimiento con otras mujeres no normativas: había muchas más como nosotras y ¡eran escritoras! Yo tengo, parafraseando a Susan Howe, a mi propia Emily Dickinson. La imagino completamente diferente del concepto cerrado que se caracteriza por ser convencional y arduo defensor del binarismo sexo-genérico. Y no soy la primera en hacerlo. Cuando yo tenía unos trece años, Ellen Louise Hart, profesora y especialista en Emily Dickinson, y Martha Nell Smith, editora y coordinadora del proyecto Dickinson Electronic Archives, publicaron Open Me Carefully (1998), que es una exploración de la correspondencia dirigida a Susan Huntington Gilbert. Hay cartas tan íntimas como la siguiente:
Archivo del blog
Have you ever thought of it, Susie, and yet I know you have, how much these hearts claim; why I don’t believe in the whole, wide world, are such hard little creditors — such real little misers, as you and I carry with us, in our bosom every day. I can’t help thinking sometimes, when I hear about the ungenerous, Heart, keep very still — or someone will find you out!… I do think it’s wonderful, Susie, that our hearts don’t break, every day… but I guess I’m made with nothing but a hard heart of stone, for it don’t break any, and dear Susie, if mine is stony, yours is stone, upon stone, for you never yield, any, where I seem quite beflown. Are we going to ossify always, say Susie — how will it be?
Will you be kind to me, Susie? I am naughty and cross, this morning, and nobody loves me here; nor would you love me, if you should see me frown, and hear how loud the door bangs whenever I go through; and yet it isn’t anger — I don’t believe it is, for when nobody sees, I brush away big tears with the corner of my apron, and then go working on — bitter tears, Susie — so hot that they burn my cheeks, and almost scorch my eyeballs, but you have wept much, and you know they are less of anger than sorrow.
mais
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“Best Witchcraft is Geometry,” Emily Dickinson would later write. Now both she and her brother found themselves in a strange bewitchment of figures, placing Susan at one point of a triangle. But Emily’s was no temporary infatuation. Nearly two decades after Susan entered her heart, she would write with unblunted desire:
Nos han tratado de convencer de que la poeta pudo haber sido una mujer frustrada por un hombre casado, un ser asexual, una solterona o una virgen encerrada en la casa familiar… Pudo haber sido todo, menos lesbiana.
Poemas más leídos en el último mes
And I do love to run fast — and hide away from them all; here in dear Susie’s bosom, I know is love and rest, and I never would go away, did not the big world call me, and beat me for not working… Your precious letter, Susie, it sits here now, and smiles so kindly at me, and gives me such sweet thoughts of the dear writer. When you come home, darling, I shan’t have your letters, shall I, but I shall have yourself, which is more — Oh more, and better, than I can even think! I sit here with my little whip, cracking the time away, till not an hour is left of it — then you are here! And Joy is here — joy now and forevermore!
But when Susan returned from Baltimore on that long-awaited Saturday, something had shifted between them. Perhaps the ten-month absence, filled not with their customary walks in the woods but with letters of exponentially swelling intensity, had revealed to Susan that Emily’s feelings for her were not of a different hue but of a wholly different color — one that she was constitutionally unable to match. Or perhaps Emily had always misdivined the contents of Susan’s heart, inferring an illusory symmetry of feeling on the basis not of evidence but of willfully blind hope.
La obra de Emily Dickinson fue mutilada desde que estuvo en el poder de sus primeros editores: Mabel Loomis Todd, quien tuvo un amorío con Austin Dickinson, y Thomas Wentworth Higginson, quien llegó a llamar “medio loca” a la autora de “‘Esperanza’ es la cosa con plumas”. Esta condescendencia paternalista persistió en publicaciones posteriores. Un editor se tomó el atrevimiento de escribir en una selección publicada por él mismo en 1959 (¡cuatro años después de la compilación de los poemas realizada por R. W. Franklin!) lo siguiente sobre Emily Dickinson: “Ella ciertamente nunca le dio una forma final a sus poemas, nunca los pulió para publicarse […] nunca tuvo la oportunidad de, como todos los poetas, destruir sus fracasos”. Cabe recordar que Lavinia Dickinson encontró cuarenta cuadernos cosidos por su hermana con poemas seleccionados por ella misma. Era organizada, tenía una rutina y cuidaba su tiempo celosamente. Era, en pocas palabras, una profesional de la escritura.