May 29, 1892 – October 25, 1938
This lady has a very colourful background having travelled and lived in many parts of Western Europe and South America. She was a single parent, wrote about the erotic asides to life and given the era in which she lived, blazed a feminist trail with her perspective on the battle of the sexes. Her disregard for men was quite obvious. In 1938, broken hearted and ailing with breast cancer she died at sea under sad and suspicious circumstances if not, a somewhat dramatic explanation of events.Storni was only very recently brought to my attention by a fellow blogger and I don’t know enough of her work yet, to call her a firm favourite. However, the trilogy I have selected says so much of who this extraordinary lady was in quite a short space. Enjoy.
My melancholy was gold dust in your hands;
On your long hands I scattered my life;
My sweetnesses remained clutched in your hands;
Now I am a vial of perfume, emptied
How much sweet torture quietly suffered,
When, my soul wrested with shadowy sadness,
She who knows the tricks, I passed the days
kissing the two hands that stifled my life
Little Little Man
Little little man, little little man,
set free your canary that wants to fly.
I am that canary, little little man,
leave me to fly.
I was in your cage, little little man,
little little man who gave me my cage.
I say “little little” because you don’t understand me
Nor will you understand.
Nor do I understand you, but meanwhile,
open for me the cage from which I want to escape.
Little little man, I loved you half an hour,
Don’t ask me again.
I Am Going to Sleep
Teeth of flowers, hairnet of dew,
hands of herbs, you, perfect wet nurse,
prepare the earthly sheets for me
and the down quilt of weeded moss.
I am going to sleep, my nurse, put me to bed.
Set a lamp at my headboard;
a constellation; whatever you like;
all are good: lower it a bit.
Leave me alone: you hear the buds breaking through . . .
a celestial foot rocks you from above
and a bird traces a pattern for you
so you’ll forget . . . Thank you. Oh, one request:
if he telephones again
tell him not to keep trying for I have left . . .
- Feeding Our Own Babies: Breastfeeding on the Plantation (itsbetterathome.wordpress.com)
- Unfinished Symphony (midnighthues.wordpress.com)