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The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Including Variant Readings Critically Compared with All Known Manuscripts
Considered by many to be the spiritual mother of American poetry, Emily Dickinson (1830–1886) was one of the most prolific and innovative poets of her era. Well-known for her reclusive personal life in <st1:place w:st="on"> <st1:city w:st="on">Amherst</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Massachusetts</st1:state> </st1:place>, her distinctively short lines, and eccentric approach to punctuation and capitalization, she completed over seventeen hundred poems in her short life. Though fewer than a dozen of her poems were actually published during her lifetime, she is still one of the most widely read poets in the English language. Over one hundred of her best poems are collected here.
1266 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1890
About the author
Emily Dickinson
1,276 books5,929 followersEmily Dickinson was an American poet who, despite the fact that less than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems were published during her lifetime, is widely considered one of the most original and influential poets of the 19th century.
Dickinson was born to a successful family with strong community ties, she lived a mostly introverted and reclusive life. After she studied at the Amherst Academy for seven years in her youth, she spent a short time at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary before returning to her family's house in Amherst. Thought of as an eccentric by the locals, she became known for her penchant for white clothing and her reluctance to greet guests or, later in life, even leave her room. Most of her friendships were therefore carried out by correspondence.
Although Dickinson was a prolific private poet, fewer than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems were published during her lifetime.The work that was published during her lifetime was usually altered significantly by the publishers to fit the conventional poetic rules of the time. Dickinson's poems are unique for the era in which she wrote; they contain short lines, typically lack titles, and often use slant rhyme as well as unconventional capitalization and punctuation.Many of her poems deal with themes of death and immortality, two recurring topics in letters to her friends.
Although most of her acquaintances were probably aware of Dickinson's writing, it was not until after her death in 1886—when Lavinia, Emily's younger sister, discovered her cache of poems—that the breadth of Dickinson's work became apparent. Her first collection of poetry was published in 1890 by personal acquaintances Thomas Wentworth Higginson and Mabel Loomis Todd, both of whom heavily edited the content.
A complete and mostly unaltered collection of her poetry became available for the first time in 1955 when The Poems of Emily Dickinson was published by scholar Thomas H. Johnson. Despite unfavorable reviews and skepticism of her literary prowess during the late 19th and early 20th century, critics now consider Dickinson to be a major American poet.
For more information, please see http://www.answers.com/topic/emily-di...
Dickinson was born to a successful family with strong community ties, she lived a mostly introverted and reclusive life. After she studied at the Amherst Academy for seven years in her youth, she spent a short time at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary before returning to her family's house in Amherst. Thought of as an eccentric by the locals, she became known for her penchant for white clothing and her reluctance to greet guests or, later in life, even leave her room. Most of her friendships were therefore carried out by correspondence.
Although Dickinson was a prolific private poet, fewer than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems were published during her lifetime.The work that was published during her lifetime was usually altered significantly by the publishers to fit the conventional poetic rules of the time. Dickinson's poems are unique for the era in which she wrote; they contain short lines, typically lack titles, and often use slant rhyme as well as unconventional capitalization and punctuation.Many of her poems deal with themes of death and immortality, two recurring topics in letters to her friends.
Although most of her acquaintances were probably aware of Dickinson's writing, it was not until after her death in 1886—when Lavinia, Emily's younger sister, discovered her cache of poems—that the breadth of Dickinson's work became apparent. Her first collection of poetry was published in 1890 by personal acquaintances Thomas Wentworth Higginson and Mabel Loomis Todd, both of whom heavily edited the content.
A complete and mostly unaltered collection of her poetry became available for the first time in 1955 when The Poems of Emily Dickinson was published by scholar Thomas H. Johnson. Despite unfavorable reviews and skepticism of her literary prowess during the late 19th and early 20th century, critics now consider Dickinson to be a major American poet.
For more information, please see http://www.answers.com/topic/emily-di...
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April 13, 2023
my becoming-a-genius project, part 24!
the background:
i have decided to become a genius.
to accomplish this, i'm going to work my way through the collected stories of various authors, reading + reviewing 1 story every day until i get bored / lose every single follower / am struck down by a vengeful deity.
i fully believe that when i get around to finishing this, i will transcend all known limits of humanity and finally become the most insufferable person in history.
but also, this is 700 pages' worth of poems - 1,775 of them, to be exact - that are not divided in any way. not sure how i'm going to take this project on, but i don't have any other options.
literally. i ran out of all my other short story collections.
let's see what happens, i guess.
PROJECT 1: THE COMPLETE STORIES BY FLANNERY O'CONNOR
PROJECT 2: HER BODY AND OTHER PARTIES BY CARMEN MARIA MACHADO
PROJECT 3: 18 BEST STORIES BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
PROJECT 4: THE LOTTERY AND OTHER STORIES BY SHIRLEY JACKSON
PROJECT 5: HOW LONG 'TIL BLACK FUTURE MONTH? BY N.K. JEMISIN
PROJECT 6: THE SHORT STORIES OF OSCAR WILDE
PROJECT 7: THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK BY ANDREW LANG
PROJECT 8: GRAND UNION: STORIES BY ZADIE SMITH
PROJECT 9: THE BEST OF ROALD DAHL
PROJECT 10: LOVE AND FREINDSHIP BY JANE AUSTEN
PROJECT 11: HOMESICK FOR ANOTHER WORLD BY OTTESSA MOSHFEGH
PROJECT 12: BAD FEMINIST BY ROXANE GAY
PROJECT 12.5: DIFFICULT WOMEN BY ROXANE GAY
PROJECT 13: THE SHORT NOVELS OF JOHN STEINBECK
PROJECT 14: FIRST PERSON SINGULAR BY HARUKI MURAKAMI
PROJECT 15: THE ORIGINAL FOLK AND FAIRY TALES OF THE BROTHERS GRIMM
PROJECT 16: A MANUAL FOR CLEANING WOMEN BY LUCIA BERLIN
PROJECT 17: SELECTED STORIES OF PHILIP K. DICK
PROJECT 18: HIGH LONESOME: SELECTED STORIES BY JOYCE CAROL OATES
PROJECT 19: THE SHORT STORIES OF ANTON CHEKHOV
PROJECT 20: COLLECTED STORIES OF COLETTE
PROJECT 21: JABBERWOCKY AND OTHER NONSENSE: COLLECTED POEMS BY LEWIS CARROLL
PROJECT 22: COLLECTED STORIES BY GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ
PROJECT 23: THE METAMORPHOSIS & OTHER STORIES BY FRANZ KAFKA
PROJECT 24: THE COMPLETE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
POEMS 1-50
if i read 50 poems a day, this will take me 36 days to finish.
there is no earthly way i will read 50 poems a day, but some of these are like 4 lines long, so it's not AS crazy as it sounds.
i would place considerable odds on the chances that i drop this down to 25 a day so fast it's like this never happened, but why not start off on a high note.
i'm not going to rate these together because i've grouped them arbitrarily, but i will put my favorite of each day and post it on my instagram story! i'm @emmareadstoomuch if you want to see em.
favorite: 41
POEMS 51-100
in many ways, this collection thus far is like a prank on me, because i keep thinking there are poems about sad girls or death or heartbreak and then in the last line they reveal themselves to be about sailing.
it's a good joke...a great joke even...
favorite: 57
POEMS 101-150
lotta roses and daisies happening here.
but that's good with me - i'm a girl who reads poetry and therefore i like flowers.
will take em any day over sh*t about ships.
also, will probably be taking a 6 day break from this, because i'm going on vacation and ain't no way i'm hauling an 800 page hardcover with me.
favorite: 111
POEMS 151-175
it was more like a 10 day break, to share my truth with you.
"A sailor's business is the shore! / A soldier's - balls! Who asketh more" lol.
cutting down to 25 poems, at least for now, due to sheer laziness and overbooked time!! (pun semi-intended.) my fav of this set is perfect for today, when i am returning from a sea- and river-filled vacation.
favorite: 162
POEMS 176-200
might stick around in this 25-a-day zone. way more sustainable. also cramming 50 emily dickinson works into one measly 24 hour period seems unlawful.
i'm not saying 190 is about hooking up with an ex but...i'm not NOT saying that.
favorite: 191
POEMS 201-225
in 215, emily asks an eternal question - "do they 'hoe'" in paradise?
favorite: 211
POEMS 226-250
get you a gf who will "harass God / Until he let you in!" to heaven. no capitalization on he, even. italicized threat for increased seriousness.
badass as hell.
favorite: 232 & 241
POEMS 251-275
wowww, hope is the thing with feathers day! all star lineup.
i like the dark stuff though. i'm edgy.
favorite: 255
POEMS 276-300
i do love that Nobody.
favorite: 288
POEMS 301-325
it is becoming clear to me that my edition has different numbers than others.
uh oh.
favorite: 301
POEMS 326-350
i think with this one i'm going to be realistic about the days. i'm not going to try to catch up. it takes however long it takes.
i mean, there's no hell like forcing yourself to read poetry when you don't feel like it.
favorite: 347
POEMS 351-375
you've heard of first is the worst, now get ready for...first is the best.
favorite: 351
POEMS 376-400
having a no-brain-cells day.
favorite: 392
POEMS 401-425
well, it's been...8 months?
i'm judging by the instagram story highlight i used to post my favorites in.
anyway, hi. i paused this installment, then i finished all my short story collections again, so here we are. stubbornly. rested and rejuvenated. ready and able to read 25 poems a day for the next 50 consecutive days, i pray.
favorite: 405
POEMS 426-450
today picking this up feels like an act of courage.
favorite: 447
POEMS 451-475
well, after an incredibly brave and impressive 2 days i paused this again to wait for the new year. which it now is. happy 2023!
biiiig death day.
favorite: 465
POEMS 476-500
i wish emily dickinson wrote novels. it's almost like she wasn't writing for a random 25 year old reader 150 years in the future.
favorite: 499
POEMS 501-525
choosing to accept that the days of this project will rarely if ever be consecutive.
i really enjoyed doing this today!! and not just because there was a sexy love poem in this 25. although that didn't hurt.
favorite: 506
POEMS 526-550
uh oh...had fun with this again today...with every passing year i grow more and more afraid i may find myself a Poetry Girl...
favorite: 536
POEMS 551-575
crisis averted. today's another couldn't emily dickinson just have written em dash-laden books instead day.
favorite: 561
POEMS 576-600
do you know the physical toll 25 poems a day can have on a person...
just kidding. i read these out loud to myself like i'm having a whimsical breakdown (which, maybe) and have a jolly old time.
favorite: 581, 584
POEMS 601-625
my New & Updated Poetry Strategy is that i only pick up this book when i feel like it, and not on a daily basis.
in other words it's been 5 days and that pause ended in another 2-favorite day. everything i do is right.
favorite: 613, 624
POEMS 626-650
just realized i totally forgot about the "share your daily favorite on your instagram story, emma, for the love of god" part of this project. does anyone care if i do that? if an arbitrary promise collapses in a digital forest, but no one is around to hear it, can i just move on like nothing happened?
anyway.
favorite: 629
POEMS 651-675
on my third consecutive day. is there anything i can't do.
favorite: 657, 661
POEMS 676-700
file four consecutive days under things i can't do.
found today's selection to be mercifully short but dreadfully meh.
favorite: 686
POEMS 701-725
i was going to say same as yesterday, but then we had a visit from a celebrity.
HAPPY BECAUSE I COULD NOT STOP FOR DEATH DAY TO ALL ACKNOWLEDGERS!
favorite: 712
POEMS 726-750
this day had poems about how being a wife sucks AND poems about how sexy the moon is. a win.
favorite: 732
POEMS 751-775
couldn't possibly guess how many days it's been since i picked this one up. spiritually a hundred years, literally probably less than a week.
not my best day.
favorite: 774
POEMS 776-800
can you believe we're not even halfway.
i can't. in fact legally i don't let myself think about it.
favorite: 777
POEMS 801-825
one of those I'm Making Up A Favorite days.
favorite: 821
POEMS 826-850
emily dickinson knew about trinket girls a million years before twitter even existed.
favorite: 841
POEMS 851-875
today's selection really aligning with my mood and general vibe today. (today's aesthetic is existential dread and a waning will to live.)
favorite: 853, 869
POEMS 876-900
feeling pretty obsessed with a poem about birds eating worms after rain right now.
favorite: 885
POEMS: 901-925
gotta love today's set. approximately 100 poems about death and hopelessness and then boom, my life is worth it if i've eased one bird's existence.
favorite: 913
POEMS: 926-950
lots of poems about being mentally ill today. also one about being best friends with the stars as a concept. big fan.
favorite: 932
POEMS: 951-975
i love this collection because there will be 40 gorgeous poems about life's biggest subjects - mortality, love, faith - and then tucked between them a perfect little capturing of the smallest moment. like this one about the feeling of walking alone down a street and seeing a slice of someone else's warm and crowded night as a door opens and shuts.
favorite: 953
POEMS: 976-1000
can you believe it - we've hit triple digits! now no one check how close i am to the character count versus how far we have left to go. i'm warning you now it doesn't add up and will only alarm the crowd.
favorite: 985
POEMS 1001-1025
a short day just when i needed her. including a 4-line poem that is literally nothing but a sick burn.
favorite: 1006
POEMS 1026-1050
some days it's like...do you guys even know how brave i'm being by picking this up. and then some days you get a poem directed to bees from a fly.
favorite: 1035
POEMS 1051-1075
i think the first and last poems may have been my favorites...which makes me concerned i just wasn't paying that much attention.
favorite: 1075
POEMS 1076-1100
reaching a new 100 level feels less special now that we're over 1000.
favorite: 1090
POEMS 1101-1125
the girl loves bees.
favorite: 1106, 1116
POEMS 1126-1150
the 3 brain cells i appear to remain in possession of struggled with this one today.
favorite: 1136, 1140
POEMS 1151-1175
you know that feeling when you're fighting off the beginning of a cold and you feel groggy and congested and bleh? it doesn't work well with poetry reading.
favorite: 1165
POEMS 1176-1200
another making up a favorite day.
favorite: 1198
POEMS 1201-1225
there is a poem about march today! and it is march right now! sign from the universe. i have no choice but to enjoy this set.
favorite: 1220
POEMS 1226-1250
emily, you saucy little minx...you knew i hadn't picked this book up in seemingly one or two centuries and you made today a back-to-back favorite day...
favorite: 1232, 1233
POEMS 1251-1275
fall poem fall poem fall poem!!!
favorite: 1271
POEMS 1276-1300
i love short novels. i love short stories. i love short poems. either i'm lazy or i have a predilection. or both.
favorite: 1287
POEMS 1301-1325
love poem to the month of march!!! spring poem i'm reading on the first full day of spring!!! crazy how this book was randomly assembled out of old papers and all of it was for me.
favorite: 310
POEMS 1326-1350
emily dickinson is an astrology girl reveal!!
favorite: 1338
POEMS 1351-1375
the rare I Can't Remember The Last Time I Picked This Up day x Making Up A Favorite day combo.
favorite: 1367
POEMS 1376-1400
leaning way too hard on a smallish poem about inexplicable joy and the corresponding desolation today, when i am like kinda sick and being super dramatic about it.
favorite: 1382
POEMS 1401-1450
it feels like lately i do one day per week of this project, so i'm doing a 50-poem day. to atone. and of course it was lovely and fun because the universe adores me.
favorite: 1420
POEMS 1451-1500
double day so nice i did it twice.
"The Booty and the Sorrow / Its Sweetness to have known"...lol.
favorite: 1465
POEMS 1501-1525
there is no joy quite like reading an emily dickinson spring poem on the first truly warm day of the season.
favorite: 1519
POEMS 1526-1550
see yesterday's note. i feel like if this collection was just 1700 stanzas of emily dickinson defining words and describing seasons, i'd be happy.
favorite: 1530
POEMS 1551-1575
a lovely little poem about a woman that hastily throws the word friend in at the end...i see you, emily.
favorite: 1568
POEMS 1576-1600
back to back short ones, one describing night as a gift and the other involving cake...bliss.
favorites: 1577, 1578
POEMS 1601-1625
bunch of pretty dawn ones today. not emily dickinson getting me fully back on board just before the end of this project!
favorite: 1618
POEMS 1626-1650
it's another make-up-a-favorite-at-the-literal-last-minute day, which is a long way of saying a monday.
favorite: 1650
POEMS 1651-1675
perfect little poem about occupied minds being like occupied houses...we're so back.
favorite: 1653
POEMS 1676-1700
no brain cell days are not conducive to this project. or is it vice versa? i don't know my mind is a mound of soggy cotton balls at this juncture.
favorite: 1682
POEMS 1701-1725
sapphic sapphic sapphic sapphic sapphic
favorite: 1722
POEMS 1726-1750
PENULTIMATE DAY. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT. DO I JUST FINISH NOW?! I NEVER THOUGHT THIS TIME WOULD COME, I'M FREAKING OUT.
lovely little lines for this almost-goodbye: "Parting is all we know of heaven, / And all we need of hell."
and a death of childhood poem...we're playing the classics now.
favorite: 1738
POEMS 1751-1775
let's finish this!
favorite: 1774
OVERALL
this project was absolutely ridiculous, and it took me 3 months, and more often than not i thought i would never ever finish. but i'm so glad i did it. (and also so glad it's done.)
i'm not a poetry girl, or at least i've always said i'm not, but i now love emily dickinson. even though the highs and lows of reading someone's collected works means taking the good with the bad and with a lot of mediocre.
but still. poems about summer and bees and flowers interspersed with death and grief, with liberal amounts of word definitions and goof-off roasts and very, very gay love poems...
what more could you ask for!
rating: 4
the background:
i have decided to become a genius.
to accomplish this, i'm going to work my way through the collected stories of various authors, reading + reviewing 1 story every day until i get bored / lose every single follower / am struck down by a vengeful deity.
i fully believe that when i get around to finishing this, i will transcend all known limits of humanity and finally become the most insufferable person in history.
but also, this is 700 pages' worth of poems - 1,775 of them, to be exact - that are not divided in any way. not sure how i'm going to take this project on, but i don't have any other options.
literally. i ran out of all my other short story collections.
let's see what happens, i guess.
PROJECT 1: THE COMPLETE STORIES BY FLANNERY O'CONNOR
PROJECT 2: HER BODY AND OTHER PARTIES BY CARMEN MARIA MACHADO
PROJECT 3: 18 BEST STORIES BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
PROJECT 4: THE LOTTERY AND OTHER STORIES BY SHIRLEY JACKSON
PROJECT 5: HOW LONG 'TIL BLACK FUTURE MONTH? BY N.K. JEMISIN
PROJECT 6: THE SHORT STORIES OF OSCAR WILDE
PROJECT 7: THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK BY ANDREW LANG
PROJECT 8: GRAND UNION: STORIES BY ZADIE SMITH
PROJECT 9: THE BEST OF ROALD DAHL
PROJECT 10: LOVE AND FREINDSHIP BY JANE AUSTEN
PROJECT 11: HOMESICK FOR ANOTHER WORLD BY OTTESSA MOSHFEGH
PROJECT 12: BAD FEMINIST BY ROXANE GAY
PROJECT 12.5: DIFFICULT WOMEN BY ROXANE GAY
PROJECT 13: THE SHORT NOVELS OF JOHN STEINBECK
PROJECT 14: FIRST PERSON SINGULAR BY HARUKI MURAKAMI
PROJECT 15: THE ORIGINAL FOLK AND FAIRY TALES OF THE BROTHERS GRIMM
PROJECT 16: A MANUAL FOR CLEANING WOMEN BY LUCIA BERLIN
PROJECT 17: SELECTED STORIES OF PHILIP K. DICK
PROJECT 18: HIGH LONESOME: SELECTED STORIES BY JOYCE CAROL OATES
PROJECT 19: THE SHORT STORIES OF ANTON CHEKHOV
PROJECT 20: COLLECTED STORIES OF COLETTE
PROJECT 21: JABBERWOCKY AND OTHER NONSENSE: COLLECTED POEMS BY LEWIS CARROLL
PROJECT 22: COLLECTED STORIES BY GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ
PROJECT 23: THE METAMORPHOSIS & OTHER STORIES BY FRANZ KAFKA
PROJECT 24: THE COMPLETE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
POEMS 1-50
if i read 50 poems a day, this will take me 36 days to finish.
there is no earthly way i will read 50 poems a day, but some of these are like 4 lines long, so it's not AS crazy as it sounds.
i would place considerable odds on the chances that i drop this down to 25 a day so fast it's like this never happened, but why not start off on a high note.
i'm not going to rate these together because i've grouped them arbitrarily, but i will put my favorite of each day and post it on my instagram story! i'm @emmareadstoomuch if you want to see em.
favorite: 41
POEMS 51-100
in many ways, this collection thus far is like a prank on me, because i keep thinking there are poems about sad girls or death or heartbreak and then in the last line they reveal themselves to be about sailing.
it's a good joke...a great joke even...
favorite: 57
POEMS 101-150
lotta roses and daisies happening here.
but that's good with me - i'm a girl who reads poetry and therefore i like flowers.
will take em any day over sh*t about ships.
also, will probably be taking a 6 day break from this, because i'm going on vacation and ain't no way i'm hauling an 800 page hardcover with me.
favorite: 111
POEMS 151-175
it was more like a 10 day break, to share my truth with you.
"A sailor's business is the shore! / A soldier's - balls! Who asketh more" lol.
cutting down to 25 poems, at least for now, due to sheer laziness and overbooked time!! (pun semi-intended.) my fav of this set is perfect for today, when i am returning from a sea- and river-filled vacation.
favorite: 162
POEMS 176-200
might stick around in this 25-a-day zone. way more sustainable. also cramming 50 emily dickinson works into one measly 24 hour period seems unlawful.
i'm not saying 190 is about hooking up with an ex but...i'm not NOT saying that.
favorite: 191
POEMS 201-225
in 215, emily asks an eternal question - "do they 'hoe'" in paradise?
favorite: 211
POEMS 226-250
get you a gf who will "harass God / Until he let you in!" to heaven. no capitalization on he, even. italicized threat for increased seriousness.
badass as hell.
favorite: 232 & 241
POEMS 251-275
wowww, hope is the thing with feathers day! all star lineup.
i like the dark stuff though. i'm edgy.
favorite: 255
POEMS 276-300
i do love that Nobody.
favorite: 288
POEMS 301-325
it is becoming clear to me that my edition has different numbers than others.
uh oh.
favorite: 301
POEMS 326-350
i think with this one i'm going to be realistic about the days. i'm not going to try to catch up. it takes however long it takes.
i mean, there's no hell like forcing yourself to read poetry when you don't feel like it.
favorite: 347
POEMS 351-375
you've heard of first is the worst, now get ready for...first is the best.
favorite: 351
POEMS 376-400
having a no-brain-cells day.
favorite: 392
POEMS 401-425
well, it's been...8 months?
i'm judging by the instagram story highlight i used to post my favorites in.
anyway, hi. i paused this installment, then i finished all my short story collections again, so here we are. stubbornly. rested and rejuvenated. ready and able to read 25 poems a day for the next 50 consecutive days, i pray.
favorite: 405
POEMS 426-450
today picking this up feels like an act of courage.
favorite: 447
POEMS 451-475
well, after an incredibly brave and impressive 2 days i paused this again to wait for the new year. which it now is. happy 2023!
biiiig death day.
favorite: 465
POEMS 476-500
i wish emily dickinson wrote novels. it's almost like she wasn't writing for a random 25 year old reader 150 years in the future.
favorite: 499
POEMS 501-525
choosing to accept that the days of this project will rarely if ever be consecutive.
i really enjoyed doing this today!! and not just because there was a sexy love poem in this 25. although that didn't hurt.
favorite: 506
POEMS 526-550
uh oh...had fun with this again today...with every passing year i grow more and more afraid i may find myself a Poetry Girl...
favorite: 536
POEMS 551-575
crisis averted. today's another couldn't emily dickinson just have written em dash-laden books instead day.
favorite: 561
POEMS 576-600
do you know the physical toll 25 poems a day can have on a person...
just kidding. i read these out loud to myself like i'm having a whimsical breakdown (which, maybe) and have a jolly old time.
favorite: 581, 584
POEMS 601-625
my New & Updated Poetry Strategy is that i only pick up this book when i feel like it, and not on a daily basis.
in other words it's been 5 days and that pause ended in another 2-favorite day. everything i do is right.
favorite: 613, 624
POEMS 626-650
just realized i totally forgot about the "share your daily favorite on your instagram story, emma, for the love of god" part of this project. does anyone care if i do that? if an arbitrary promise collapses in a digital forest, but no one is around to hear it, can i just move on like nothing happened?
anyway.
favorite: 629
POEMS 651-675
on my third consecutive day. is there anything i can't do.
favorite: 657, 661
POEMS 676-700
file four consecutive days under things i can't do.
found today's selection to be mercifully short but dreadfully meh.
favorite: 686
POEMS 701-725
i was going to say same as yesterday, but then we had a visit from a celebrity.
HAPPY BECAUSE I COULD NOT STOP FOR DEATH DAY TO ALL ACKNOWLEDGERS!
favorite: 712
POEMS 726-750
this day had poems about how being a wife sucks AND poems about how sexy the moon is. a win.
favorite: 732
POEMS 751-775
couldn't possibly guess how many days it's been since i picked this one up. spiritually a hundred years, literally probably less than a week.
not my best day.
favorite: 774
POEMS 776-800
can you believe we're not even halfway.
i can't. in fact legally i don't let myself think about it.
favorite: 777
POEMS 801-825
one of those I'm Making Up A Favorite days.
favorite: 821
POEMS 826-850
emily dickinson knew about trinket girls a million years before twitter even existed.
favorite: 841
POEMS 851-875
today's selection really aligning with my mood and general vibe today. (today's aesthetic is existential dread and a waning will to live.)
favorite: 853, 869
POEMS 876-900
feeling pretty obsessed with a poem about birds eating worms after rain right now.
favorite: 885
POEMS: 901-925
gotta love today's set. approximately 100 poems about death and hopelessness and then boom, my life is worth it if i've eased one bird's existence.
favorite: 913
POEMS: 926-950
lots of poems about being mentally ill today. also one about being best friends with the stars as a concept. big fan.
favorite: 932
POEMS: 951-975
i love this collection because there will be 40 gorgeous poems about life's biggest subjects - mortality, love, faith - and then tucked between them a perfect little capturing of the smallest moment. like this one about the feeling of walking alone down a street and seeing a slice of someone else's warm and crowded night as a door opens and shuts.
favorite: 953
POEMS: 976-1000
can you believe it - we've hit triple digits! now no one check how close i am to the character count versus how far we have left to go. i'm warning you now it doesn't add up and will only alarm the crowd.
favorite: 985
POEMS 1001-1025
a short day just when i needed her. including a 4-line poem that is literally nothing but a sick burn.
favorite: 1006
POEMS 1026-1050
some days it's like...do you guys even know how brave i'm being by picking this up. and then some days you get a poem directed to bees from a fly.
favorite: 1035
POEMS 1051-1075
i think the first and last poems may have been my favorites...which makes me concerned i just wasn't paying that much attention.
favorite: 1075
POEMS 1076-1100
reaching a new 100 level feels less special now that we're over 1000.
favorite: 1090
POEMS 1101-1125
the girl loves bees.
favorite: 1106, 1116
POEMS 1126-1150
the 3 brain cells i appear to remain in possession of struggled with this one today.
favorite: 1136, 1140
POEMS 1151-1175
you know that feeling when you're fighting off the beginning of a cold and you feel groggy and congested and bleh? it doesn't work well with poetry reading.
favorite: 1165
POEMS 1176-1200
another making up a favorite day.
favorite: 1198
POEMS 1201-1225
there is a poem about march today! and it is march right now! sign from the universe. i have no choice but to enjoy this set.
favorite: 1220
POEMS 1226-1250
emily, you saucy little minx...you knew i hadn't picked this book up in seemingly one or two centuries and you made today a back-to-back favorite day...
favorite: 1232, 1233
POEMS 1251-1275
fall poem fall poem fall poem!!!
favorite: 1271
POEMS 1276-1300
i love short novels. i love short stories. i love short poems. either i'm lazy or i have a predilection. or both.
favorite: 1287
POEMS 1301-1325
love poem to the month of march!!! spring poem i'm reading on the first full day of spring!!! crazy how this book was randomly assembled out of old papers and all of it was for me.
favorite: 310
POEMS 1326-1350
emily dickinson is an astrology girl reveal!!
favorite: 1338
POEMS 1351-1375
the rare I Can't Remember The Last Time I Picked This Up day x Making Up A Favorite day combo.
favorite: 1367
POEMS 1376-1400
leaning way too hard on a smallish poem about inexplicable joy and the corresponding desolation today, when i am like kinda sick and being super dramatic about it.
favorite: 1382
POEMS 1401-1450
it feels like lately i do one day per week of this project, so i'm doing a 50-poem day. to atone. and of course it was lovely and fun because the universe adores me.
favorite: 1420
POEMS 1451-1500
double day so nice i did it twice.
"The Booty and the Sorrow / Its Sweetness to have known"...lol.
favorite: 1465
POEMS 1501-1525
there is no joy quite like reading an emily dickinson spring poem on the first truly warm day of the season.
favorite: 1519
POEMS 1526-1550
see yesterday's note. i feel like if this collection was just 1700 stanzas of emily dickinson defining words and describing seasons, i'd be happy.
favorite: 1530
POEMS 1551-1575
a lovely little poem about a woman that hastily throws the word friend in at the end...i see you, emily.
favorite: 1568
POEMS 1576-1600
back to back short ones, one describing night as a gift and the other involving cake...bliss.
favorites: 1577, 1578
POEMS 1601-1625
bunch of pretty dawn ones today. not emily dickinson getting me fully back on board just before the end of this project!
favorite: 1618
POEMS 1626-1650
it's another make-up-a-favorite-at-the-literal-last-minute day, which is a long way of saying a monday.
favorite: 1650
POEMS 1651-1675
perfect little poem about occupied minds being like occupied houses...we're so back.
favorite: 1653
POEMS 1676-1700
no brain cell days are not conducive to this project. or is it vice versa? i don't know my mind is a mound of soggy cotton balls at this juncture.
favorite: 1682
POEMS 1701-1725
sapphic sapphic sapphic sapphic sapphic
favorite: 1722
POEMS 1726-1750
PENULTIMATE DAY. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT. DO I JUST FINISH NOW?! I NEVER THOUGHT THIS TIME WOULD COME, I'M FREAKING OUT.
lovely little lines for this almost-goodbye: "Parting is all we know of heaven, / And all we need of hell."
and a death of childhood poem...we're playing the classics now.
favorite: 1738
POEMS 1751-1775
let's finish this!
favorite: 1774
OVERALL
this project was absolutely ridiculous, and it took me 3 months, and more often than not i thought i would never ever finish. but i'm so glad i did it. (and also so glad it's done.)
i'm not a poetry girl, or at least i've always said i'm not, but i now love emily dickinson. even though the highs and lows of reading someone's collected works means taking the good with the bad and with a lot of mediocre.
but still. poems about summer and bees and flowers interspersed with death and grief, with liberal amounts of word definitions and goof-off roasts and very, very gay love poems...
what more could you ask for!
rating: 4
March 19, 2008
Because she is so freaking good--
As good--as she can be--
She makes me want--to scream--and shout--
And set my poor heart free--
Because I cannot live without--
Her rhythm--and her rhyme--
I keep this poet close at hand
And only ask--for time.
As good--as she can be--
She makes me want--to scream--and shout--
And set my poor heart free--
Because I cannot live without--
Her rhythm--and her rhyme--
I keep this poet close at hand
And only ask--for time.
Read
March 16, 2021If, like me, you’ve become mildly obsessed with the wild and transcendent Dickinson on Apple, then you probably have already grasped just how large the idea of fame looms over Emily’s life. The show isn’t historically accurate (which is what helps it so shine so brightly, in my opinion) but it is an excellent introduction to her poems. “Fame is a bee,” among others, deals with the complexity of fame—a theme I seem to be addicted to in my own work as well.
May 21, 2012
I felt a sneeze - as big as God
Form in - back of - my Nose
Yet being - without - a Handkerchief
I Panicked quite - and froze
Sneeze I must - yet sneeze - must not
Dilemma - made - me grieve
Happy then - a single Bee
Saw me - use - my sleeve
Well all right, I did not read every one of the 25,678 but certainly a fair number. You know when she died they found she'd stuffed poems everywhere in her house, up the chimney, down her knickers, tied in little "packets" onto her dogs' hindquarters, someone cut a slice of a loaf of bread to make a sandwich and another 25 poems fell out. I think Emily would have made a great drug mule if she'd have lived another 120 years. Although she may have found a serious conflict between her intense religious convictions and the large amount of cash she would have made, not to mention the radical change of lifestyle.
There's - a certain - slant of - light
On - winter afternoons
That makes - you feel - high
Like - those - small - mushrooms
I put - a poem - in my pants
Then sitting - by an Eternal Lake
My poem - seemed - to speak aloud
"Lay off - the Battenburg - cake"
Form in - back of - my Nose
Yet being - without - a Handkerchief
I Panicked quite - and froze
Sneeze I must - yet sneeze - must not
Dilemma - made - me grieve
Happy then - a single Bee
Saw me - use - my sleeve
Well all right, I did not read every one of the 25,678 but certainly a fair number. You know when she died they found she'd stuffed poems everywhere in her house, up the chimney, down her knickers, tied in little "packets" onto her dogs' hindquarters, someone cut a slice of a loaf of bread to make a sandwich and another 25 poems fell out. I think Emily would have made a great drug mule if she'd have lived another 120 years. Although she may have found a serious conflict between her intense religious convictions and the large amount of cash she would have made, not to mention the radical change of lifestyle.
There's - a certain - slant of - light
On - winter afternoons
That makes - you feel - high
Like - those - small - mushrooms
I put - a poem - in my pants
Then sitting - by an Eternal Lake
My poem - seemed - to speak aloud
"Lay off - the Battenburg - cake"
January 17, 2019
Emily Dickinson's poetry is stunningly existential and her story is equally fascinating. Such a great collection to dip in and out of, and no-one writes a striking opening line quite like her.
March 5, 2020
When I hoped, I feared
Since I hoped, I dared!
I realized for a moment with a great sense of sadness that from now on, whenever I decide to read a famous poet for the first time, I must keep myself free from any prejudice and presumption. I had heard that she was regarded as a transcendentalist as far as the major themes in her poems were concerned. I do not know, from where I got this notion, I probably learned it from some of the early articles, I read about her poems somewhere. How authentic was that source?
I never checked! And meanwhile, I never got time to read her, verifying such presuppositions.
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Ar you--Nobody--Too?
Transcendentalism is certainly present there, but I also found commonplace innocence along with that profound sapience and susceptibility for Life, Love, and Death in her poetry. She has also written on various subjects like trains, shipwreck, surgeons, contract, lost jewel, etc. But she has filled those ordinary looking stuff around, with the fragrance of her craft and sensitivity.
Surgeons must be very careful
When they take the knife!
Underneath their fine incisions
stirs the culprit,- life!
She herself has claimed that she has her phrases for every thought, but she confessed her limitations as well.
I found the phrase to every thought
I ever had, but one;
And that defies me,- as a hand
did try to chalk the sun
While I was reading this bulky volume, I felt in the beginning as if I were getting acquainted with a young girl, who did not want to disclose her sentiments, and who felt irritated and looked sulky when someone read her and tried to empathize with her sensibility. I felt as if she wished to keep herself hidden. But at the very next moment, I felt as if she were daring me to explore too, proving my thoughts wrong about her hesitancy, telling me how audacious her approach was.
Who never climbed the weary league-
Can such a foot explore
The purple territories
On Pizarro's shore?
Her poems on nature, love, and life are extraordinarily beautiful and touching. Her sensibility in writing about hope and hunger, about life and death, about exploring and returning is just wonderful.
Tomorrow night will come again
Weary perhaps and sore
Ah, bugle, by my window
I pray you stroll once more!
She has scrutinized almost everything. Her subtle observation enlarged my common sense. There were four- liners giving a sound imprint to my sensibility and then there were beautiful longer poems taking me to her world of imagination giving an impression of her vision. She was humorous at times and expressed herself lightly as well, but she never looked futile. She maintained the depth and gravity every time.
I heard that though she lived a secluded life, she was never disappointed with life. I think she might have been an extremely sensitive introvert who invaginated her sentiments from the world and then from within her, came out such beautiful and impressive rhymes and verses, which made her readers feel instantly connected to her.
I am so pleased and joyous reading her and having filled myself with such unique and exotic poetry of this poetess that I am going to visit her poetic world again and again.
That’s a promise!
The soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend,-
Or the most agonizing spy
An enemy could send
Since I hoped, I dared!
I realized for a moment with a great sense of sadness that from now on, whenever I decide to read a famous poet for the first time, I must keep myself free from any prejudice and presumption. I had heard that she was regarded as a transcendentalist as far as the major themes in her poems were concerned. I do not know, from where I got this notion, I probably learned it from some of the early articles, I read about her poems somewhere. How authentic was that source?
I never checked! And meanwhile, I never got time to read her, verifying such presuppositions.
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Ar you--Nobody--Too?
Transcendentalism is certainly present there, but I also found commonplace innocence along with that profound sapience and susceptibility for Life, Love, and Death in her poetry. She has also written on various subjects like trains, shipwreck, surgeons, contract, lost jewel, etc. But she has filled those ordinary looking stuff around, with the fragrance of her craft and sensitivity.
Surgeons must be very careful
When they take the knife!
Underneath their fine incisions
stirs the culprit,- life!
She herself has claimed that she has her phrases for every thought, but she confessed her limitations as well.
I found the phrase to every thought
I ever had, but one;
And that defies me,- as a hand
did try to chalk the sun
While I was reading this bulky volume, I felt in the beginning as if I were getting acquainted with a young girl, who did not want to disclose her sentiments, and who felt irritated and looked sulky when someone read her and tried to empathize with her sensibility. I felt as if she wished to keep herself hidden. But at the very next moment, I felt as if she were daring me to explore too, proving my thoughts wrong about her hesitancy, telling me how audacious her approach was.
Who never climbed the weary league-
Can such a foot explore
The purple territories
On Pizarro's shore?
Her poems on nature, love, and life are extraordinarily beautiful and touching. Her sensibility in writing about hope and hunger, about life and death, about exploring and returning is just wonderful.
Tomorrow night will come again
Weary perhaps and sore
Ah, bugle, by my window
I pray you stroll once more!
She has scrutinized almost everything. Her subtle observation enlarged my common sense. There were four- liners giving a sound imprint to my sensibility and then there were beautiful longer poems taking me to her world of imagination giving an impression of her vision. She was humorous at times and expressed herself lightly as well, but she never looked futile. She maintained the depth and gravity every time.
I heard that though she lived a secluded life, she was never disappointed with life. I think she might have been an extremely sensitive introvert who invaginated her sentiments from the world and then from within her, came out such beautiful and impressive rhymes and verses, which made her readers feel instantly connected to her.
I am so pleased and joyous reading her and having filled myself with such unique and exotic poetry of this poetess that I am going to visit her poetic world again and again.
That’s a promise!
The soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend,-
Or the most agonizing spy
An enemy could send
January 23, 2020
Book Review
I love Emily Dickinson's poetry. I recently went to a museum exhibit dedicated to her and fell in love again with one of her poems, which I'll dissect below:
Critics of Emily Dickinson’s poem number 328, commonly titled “A Bird Came Down the Walk,” have several different interpretations of the poem. Most critics believe that the poem is a “conventional symbolic account of Christian encounter within the world of nature…” (Budick 218). Although several critics take a religious approach to the poem, I disagree with them. I believe that “A Bird Came Down the Walk” is about mankind’s innate fear of others who are larger/smaller than they are. I also think that the poem explains man’s reaction to this fear. The bird in poem number 328 actually represents all of mankind. When the bird is confronted with its fear, it flies away. A (wo)man is as guilty as the bird when (s)he is running away from his/her fears. When we are scared or frightened, we often run away instead of standing up to face our fears.
The first stanza of Emily Dickinson’s poem shows a bird doing what it normally does all day long: “A Bird came down the walk / He did not know I saw / He bit an Angleworm in halves / And ate the fellow raw.” However, there is a deeper meaning in this stanza than the idea of a bird simply eating a raw worm. According to Jonnie G. Guerra, “the speaker’s choice of verbs seems to express a desire to anthropomorphize the bird” (Guerra 29). By giving the bird human-like qualities, the narrator invites the readers to compare the bird’s actions to mankind’s actions. The man is actually a human being who is eating his lunch or dinner. Since the bird does not know that the reader sees him eating a worm, the bird is perfectly at peace going about his daily business. Humans are identical to the bird in this sense. We follow our daily routines of eating, drinking, sleeping, shopping, and working; yet, we rarely realize that someone may be watching our every move. All throughout the day, parents watch their children to insure their safety, teachers monitor their students’ progress in order to help them do well, and bosses keep a close watch on their employees to see if they are doing the work that they were hired to do. There is always a pair of eyes beating down on us to scrutinize our every action, just like the narrator scrutinizes the bird’s actions. Through the bird, who is unaware of the man watching him, the narrator shows that no one is ever completely alone. The bird may be in danger, and it feels as though someone or something is approaching it.
The second stanza continues with the anthropomorphization of the bird: “And then he drank a Dew / From a convenient Grass / And then hopped sideways to the Wall / To let a Beetle pass.” The reader sees the resemblance of the bird to a human in this stanza when the bird drinks a dew because “grass” suggests an echo-pun on glass (Guerra 29). However, this stanza also sets up a situation that shows the goodness of humankind. Charles R. Metzger “playfully suggests a fancifully anthropomorphic sense of genteel deportment in the bird’s letting a “Beetle pass” (Metzger 22). Here, the narrator shows that the bird is kind enough to step out of the way for the beetle, a creature smaller than the bird, to pass by. Continuing with the theory that the bird is actually a human, readers then see how we humans often try to be accommodating to others. When others aren’t as capable of doing something on their own, man will often go out of his/her way to make it more convenient for them. When we are in the way of others’ goals, we try to get out of their way if at all possible. With its human-like qualities, the bird follows the “Golden Rule” just as man does. Since we are never alone in the world, we must work to make friends. Perhaps, the bird is trying to befriend the beetle. It is unlikely, but still, the bird is friendly by moving out of the beetle’s way. However, the bird’s friendliness isn’t enough to keep the bird calm when the stranger/narrator advances toward it.
As a result, the third stanza shows a change in the bird’s composure: “He glanced with rapid eyes / That hurried all around / They looked like frightened Beads, I thought / He stirred his Velvet Head.” When the bird stepped to the side, he realized that the narrator was watching him. He wasn’t alone at all. Fear starts to enter into the bird’s blood, making him look for the nearest escape route. The bird is unsure of the narrator, and what his/her intentions are. The narrator might be there to cause harm, or the narrator could be there to express kindness as the bird did for the beetle. Folk wisdom has always said that the eyes are the windows to one’s soul. When the bird’s eyes glance all around, the fear is evident; only in a case of extreme fright would the bird’s eyes become beady and glassy (Andersen 119). At this point in the poem, the narrator is physically close to the bird. While the bird is afraid of the man who is close to him, we humans are afraid of the people closest to us. The people who know us best and are closest to us have the power to hurt us the most. We are so unaware of other’s eyes beating down us at times that we become victims quite easily. We may be accommodating to a point, but we should never be accommodating to the point that we lose our focus and our direction. We need to hold back from others so that we maintain some order in our lives. Fear cannot take control of us. When it does, we must get away from it somehow, just as the bird does.
The fourth stanza of the poem shows the bird reacting to the narrator’s approach: “Like one in danger, cautious, / I offered him a Crumb / And he unrolled his feathers / And rowed him softer home.” Now, the narrator approaches the bird and offers to feed him, but the bird is frightened and flies away. The bird is quite small in comparison to the narrator. The narrator’s size is what scares the bird away. Charles R. Anderson notes that Dickinson “keeps the whole garden world reduced to the bird’s size. The [narrator] is left towering above and outside, having no magical elixir like Alice in Wonderland to shrink her down to a level where communication is possible” (Anderson 118). Jerome Loving agrees by pointing out that “if there is any suggestion of danger, it comes when the human narrator offers the bird a crumb. The truth is that nature is a nice place, a pastoral scene until man blunders on stage with the full weight of his past and future” (Loving 56). We humans have the same innate fear as birds when we face someone who is larger than we are. If someone is higher up on the corporate ladder than us, we are constantly afraid that he or she will fire us. Students have the fear of teachers failing them just as the bird feels the human will hurt him. Children feel afraid of their parents punishing them at times also. Everywhere we turn, there is someone who is stronger or more important than we are. We will always feel as though others are going to do something to hurt us; therefore, we need to escape this fear by running away like the bird does. If one looks at it another way, the bird could also be afraid of the entire world. Even though the beetle is smaller than the bird is, the bird might still be afraid. It is common knowledge that elephants are often afraid of mice, which are hundreds of times smaller than elephants are. Perhaps the bird’s nerves are on edge, and he is afraid of anything that makes a slight, sudden move. The beetle could cause harm too. Humans are often afraid of spiders and bees, which are quite small in comparison to man. Nevertheless, the bird runs away just as man does when confronted with a situation he fears.
The fifth stanza shows that the bird flies away softly and quickly: “Than Oars divide the Ocean / Too silver for a seam / Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon / Leap, plashless as they swim.” The bird knows that it is in danger and must leave as quickly as possible. Also, the bird wants to leave quietly, in the hopes that the narrator doesn’t realize that the bird is leaving. We humans also try to leave swiftly and quietly. We know when we have been defeated, and we try to leave with our tail between our legs. We are ashamed and upset that someone has hurt us or tried to hurt us, so we escape. Running or flying away may not be the best way to handle the situation, but that is all that we know how to do. Man is accustomed to flee a situation rather than to confront it. Therefore, the bird, who represents man, flees too.
According to Anderson, “The dangers as well as the beauty represented by nature at large… are here concentrated in a single bird that exhibits a complex mix of qualities: ferocity, fastidiousness, courtesy, fear, and grace” (Anderson 221). The bird in Emily Dickinson’s poem “A Bird Came Down the Walk” can be representative of humans, since humans have the qualities such as fear, courtesy, and grace in their personality. Dickinson’s poem comments on man’s innate fear of others. We humans are always being watched and when we realize how close someone is to us, we need to run for fear that (s)he will hurt us. Our fleeing is done with grace and courtesy. It is a reaction that all humans have at one point or another. Dickinson’s poem shows the readers this fear and the results of the fear on mankind.
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For those new to me or my reviews... here's the scoop: I read A LOT. I write A LOT. And now I blog A LOT. First the book review goes on Goodreads, and then I send it on over to my WordPress blog at https://thisismytruthnow.com, where you'll also find TV & Film reviews, the revealing and introspective 365 Daily Challenge and lots of blogging about places I've visited all over the world. And you can find all my social media profiles to get the details on the who/what/when/where and my pictures. Leave a comment and let me know what you think. Vote in the poll and ratings. Thanks for stopping by.
I love Emily Dickinson's poetry. I recently went to a museum exhibit dedicated to her and fell in love again with one of her poems, which I'll dissect below:
Critics of Emily Dickinson’s poem number 328, commonly titled “A Bird Came Down the Walk,” have several different interpretations of the poem. Most critics believe that the poem is a “conventional symbolic account of Christian encounter within the world of nature…” (Budick 218). Although several critics take a religious approach to the poem, I disagree with them. I believe that “A Bird Came Down the Walk” is about mankind’s innate fear of others who are larger/smaller than they are. I also think that the poem explains man’s reaction to this fear. The bird in poem number 328 actually represents all of mankind. When the bird is confronted with its fear, it flies away. A (wo)man is as guilty as the bird when (s)he is running away from his/her fears. When we are scared or frightened, we often run away instead of standing up to face our fears.
The first stanza of Emily Dickinson’s poem shows a bird doing what it normally does all day long: “A Bird came down the walk / He did not know I saw / He bit an Angleworm in halves / And ate the fellow raw.” However, there is a deeper meaning in this stanza than the idea of a bird simply eating a raw worm. According to Jonnie G. Guerra, “the speaker’s choice of verbs seems to express a desire to anthropomorphize the bird” (Guerra 29). By giving the bird human-like qualities, the narrator invites the readers to compare the bird’s actions to mankind’s actions. The man is actually a human being who is eating his lunch or dinner. Since the bird does not know that the reader sees him eating a worm, the bird is perfectly at peace going about his daily business. Humans are identical to the bird in this sense. We follow our daily routines of eating, drinking, sleeping, shopping, and working; yet, we rarely realize that someone may be watching our every move. All throughout the day, parents watch their children to insure their safety, teachers monitor their students’ progress in order to help them do well, and bosses keep a close watch on their employees to see if they are doing the work that they were hired to do. There is always a pair of eyes beating down on us to scrutinize our every action, just like the narrator scrutinizes the bird’s actions. Through the bird, who is unaware of the man watching him, the narrator shows that no one is ever completely alone. The bird may be in danger, and it feels as though someone or something is approaching it.
The second stanza continues with the anthropomorphization of the bird: “And then he drank a Dew / From a convenient Grass / And then hopped sideways to the Wall / To let a Beetle pass.” The reader sees the resemblance of the bird to a human in this stanza when the bird drinks a dew because “grass” suggests an echo-pun on glass (Guerra 29). However, this stanza also sets up a situation that shows the goodness of humankind. Charles R. Metzger “playfully suggests a fancifully anthropomorphic sense of genteel deportment in the bird’s letting a “Beetle pass” (Metzger 22). Here, the narrator shows that the bird is kind enough to step out of the way for the beetle, a creature smaller than the bird, to pass by. Continuing with the theory that the bird is actually a human, readers then see how we humans often try to be accommodating to others. When others aren’t as capable of doing something on their own, man will often go out of his/her way to make it more convenient for them. When we are in the way of others’ goals, we try to get out of their way if at all possible. With its human-like qualities, the bird follows the “Golden Rule” just as man does. Since we are never alone in the world, we must work to make friends. Perhaps, the bird is trying to befriend the beetle. It is unlikely, but still, the bird is friendly by moving out of the beetle’s way. However, the bird’s friendliness isn’t enough to keep the bird calm when the stranger/narrator advances toward it.
As a result, the third stanza shows a change in the bird’s composure: “He glanced with rapid eyes / That hurried all around / They looked like frightened Beads, I thought / He stirred his Velvet Head.” When the bird stepped to the side, he realized that the narrator was watching him. He wasn’t alone at all. Fear starts to enter into the bird’s blood, making him look for the nearest escape route. The bird is unsure of the narrator, and what his/her intentions are. The narrator might be there to cause harm, or the narrator could be there to express kindness as the bird did for the beetle. Folk wisdom has always said that the eyes are the windows to one’s soul. When the bird’s eyes glance all around, the fear is evident; only in a case of extreme fright would the bird’s eyes become beady and glassy (Andersen 119). At this point in the poem, the narrator is physically close to the bird. While the bird is afraid of the man who is close to him, we humans are afraid of the people closest to us. The people who know us best and are closest to us have the power to hurt us the most. We are so unaware of other’s eyes beating down us at times that we become victims quite easily. We may be accommodating to a point, but we should never be accommodating to the point that we lose our focus and our direction. We need to hold back from others so that we maintain some order in our lives. Fear cannot take control of us. When it does, we must get away from it somehow, just as the bird does.
The fourth stanza of the poem shows the bird reacting to the narrator’s approach: “Like one in danger, cautious, / I offered him a Crumb / And he unrolled his feathers / And rowed him softer home.” Now, the narrator approaches the bird and offers to feed him, but the bird is frightened and flies away. The bird is quite small in comparison to the narrator. The narrator’s size is what scares the bird away. Charles R. Anderson notes that Dickinson “keeps the whole garden world reduced to the bird’s size. The [narrator] is left towering above and outside, having no magical elixir like Alice in Wonderland to shrink her down to a level where communication is possible” (Anderson 118). Jerome Loving agrees by pointing out that “if there is any suggestion of danger, it comes when the human narrator offers the bird a crumb. The truth is that nature is a nice place, a pastoral scene until man blunders on stage with the full weight of his past and future” (Loving 56). We humans have the same innate fear as birds when we face someone who is larger than we are. If someone is higher up on the corporate ladder than us, we are constantly afraid that he or she will fire us. Students have the fear of teachers failing them just as the bird feels the human will hurt him. Children feel afraid of their parents punishing them at times also. Everywhere we turn, there is someone who is stronger or more important than we are. We will always feel as though others are going to do something to hurt us; therefore, we need to escape this fear by running away like the bird does. If one looks at it another way, the bird could also be afraid of the entire world. Even though the beetle is smaller than the bird is, the bird might still be afraid. It is common knowledge that elephants are often afraid of mice, which are hundreds of times smaller than elephants are. Perhaps the bird’s nerves are on edge, and he is afraid of anything that makes a slight, sudden move. The beetle could cause harm too. Humans are often afraid of spiders and bees, which are quite small in comparison to man. Nevertheless, the bird runs away just as man does when confronted with a situation he fears.
The fifth stanza shows that the bird flies away softly and quickly: “Than Oars divide the Ocean / Too silver for a seam / Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon / Leap, plashless as they swim.” The bird knows that it is in danger and must leave as quickly as possible. Also, the bird wants to leave quietly, in the hopes that the narrator doesn’t realize that the bird is leaving. We humans also try to leave swiftly and quietly. We know when we have been defeated, and we try to leave with our tail between our legs. We are ashamed and upset that someone has hurt us or tried to hurt us, so we escape. Running or flying away may not be the best way to handle the situation, but that is all that we know how to do. Man is accustomed to flee a situation rather than to confront it. Therefore, the bird, who represents man, flees too.
According to Anderson, “The dangers as well as the beauty represented by nature at large… are here concentrated in a single bird that exhibits a complex mix of qualities: ferocity, fastidiousness, courtesy, fear, and grace” (Anderson 221). The bird in Emily Dickinson’s poem “A Bird Came Down the Walk” can be representative of humans, since humans have the qualities such as fear, courtesy, and grace in their personality. Dickinson’s poem comments on man’s innate fear of others. We humans are always being watched and when we realize how close someone is to us, we need to run for fear that (s)he will hurt us. Our fleeing is done with grace and courtesy. It is a reaction that all humans have at one point or another. Dickinson’s poem shows the readers this fear and the results of the fear on mankind.
About Me
For those new to me or my reviews... here's the scoop: I read A LOT. I write A LOT. And now I blog A LOT. First the book review goes on Goodreads, and then I send it on over to my WordPress blog at https://thisismytruthnow.com, where you'll also find TV & Film reviews, the revealing and introspective 365 Daily Challenge and lots of blogging about places I've visited all over the world. And you can find all my social media profiles to get the details on the who/what/when/where and my pictures. Leave a comment and let me know what you think. Vote in the poll and ratings. Thanks for stopping by.
August 10, 2016
This is a huge volume of poetry and probably not meant to be read straight through, but that's what I did. Some of them I didn't like or understand, but there were many that I thought were beautiful and perfectly suited to my feelings. I think that's the way with most poets and their readers. After reading, I was left in wonder about this strange and reclusive woman who saw only a handful of her poems published before her death. She never knew she would be a success, never knew her poems would be loved by millions of people, and never knew she would be considered one of the greatest American poets.
November 19, 2022
See the Dickinson documentary A Loaded Gun for my take on this writer, arguably the best poet in English. (I play the villain in that film directed by James Wolpaw.) I have given reading-whistlings of ED's bird poems, from memory of course, in the garden of the Dickinson Manse in Amherst, and I have recited an hour of Dickinson on several occasions (from memory). In fact, Dickinson is fairly easy to memorize--a hallmark of fine verse. Perhaps only Yeats' tetrametric "Under Ben Bulben" is easier to recall, and maybe a couple Seventeenth Century lyrics, and maybe a ballad or two. (I may add, as a Shakespearean for 35 years, I have memorized a couple dozen of his sonnets and maybe twenty major speeches. Some of his sonnets are easy to memorize: one I learned in ten minutes one morning walking; others I have to re-memorize every year.*)
I recommend reading this poet three poems a day for a year and a half. They resonate so much that time between them rewards the reader. If you read them straight through, you may withdraw your participation in the text. A very famous critic I know well read all the poems and her critics in a couple months; he came away less appreciative. I say, he would not have read all Shakespeare like that, and Dickinson has the heft of Shakespeare. In many cases, one must know--say, what Robins eat--to enjoy:
"A Bird came down the Walk -
He did not know I saw -
He bit an Angle Worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw..."
Or on a much less common bird now, which I only saw after decades, though I heard when young:
"I"ll tell you how the sun rose--
A Ribbon at a time.
The Steeple swam in Amethyst,
The News--like Squirrels--ran.
The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”
Some other Dickinson critiques I have published in my Birdtalk (Random House/ Frog, 2003).
In winters I always recite her Blue Jay, "No Brigadier throughout the year/ So Civic as the Jay..." and always her Oriole, "One of the ones that Midas touched/ Who failed to touch us all.." as well as a couple of her short Robin poems, "The Robin is the One/ That interrupts the Morn/ With Hurried, few, express Reports/When March is scarecely on." E.D. here lays down the best description of a Robin's song,a burbling, impure, emphatic series. This poem is also what Yeats calls "passionate syntax," poetic thwarting of English grammar: here, the poetic singer uses "one" as a collective pronoun. Neat trick. As a collective pronoun, it takes a plural verb, "the One/ That interrupt ...." It's grammatically impossible, but it works. (my book BirdTalk, p.93).
* The former, learned in ten minutes walking, "Why is my verse so barren of new pride"(#76); the one I re-memorize, "Some glory in their birth, some in their skill"(91).
I recommend reading this poet three poems a day for a year and a half. They resonate so much that time between them rewards the reader. If you read them straight through, you may withdraw your participation in the text. A very famous critic I know well read all the poems and her critics in a couple months; he came away less appreciative. I say, he would not have read all Shakespeare like that, and Dickinson has the heft of Shakespeare. In many cases, one must know--say, what Robins eat--to enjoy:
"A Bird came down the Walk -
He did not know I saw -
He bit an Angle Worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw..."
Or on a much less common bird now, which I only saw after decades, though I heard when young:
"I"ll tell you how the sun rose--
A Ribbon at a time.
The Steeple swam in Amethyst,
The News--like Squirrels--ran.
The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”
Some other Dickinson critiques I have published in my Birdtalk (Random House/ Frog, 2003).
In winters I always recite her Blue Jay, "No Brigadier throughout the year/ So Civic as the Jay..." and always her Oriole, "One of the ones that Midas touched/ Who failed to touch us all.." as well as a couple of her short Robin poems, "The Robin is the One/ That interrupts the Morn/ With Hurried, few, express Reports/When March is scarecely on." E.D. here lays down the best description of a Robin's song,a burbling, impure, emphatic series. This poem is also what Yeats calls "passionate syntax," poetic thwarting of English grammar: here, the poetic singer uses "one" as a collective pronoun. Neat trick. As a collective pronoun, it takes a plural verb, "the One/ That interrupt ...." It's grammatically impossible, but it works. (my book BirdTalk, p.93).
* The former, learned in ten minutes walking, "Why is my verse so barren of new pride"(#76); the one I re-memorize, "Some glory in their birth, some in their skill"(91).
September 27, 2007
Emily Dickinson's poems convinced me, at an early age of 9 or 10, to become a writer myself. I discovered her poems from the obsolete American textbooks my mother got from the collection in our school library. On Saturday and Sunday afternoons, when it was too hot to play outside and children were forced to take afternoon siestas, I'd end up reading her poems and imagined the person, that woman, with whom I shared similar thoughts. My favorite poem remains to this day:
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
I knew of course that she never became famous in her lifetime, and that was something she didn't particularly aim for. But her poems assured me that there was something else I needed to do, somewhere else I had to be. Like everything, including our physical state was just temporary. So I grew up looking forward to the day when I'd have enough courage to write about my thoughts and feelings and be able to say, this is my letter to the world who never wrote to me... ;)
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
I knew of course that she never became famous in her lifetime, and that was something she didn't particularly aim for. But her poems assured me that there was something else I needed to do, somewhere else I had to be. Like everything, including our physical state was just temporary. So I grew up looking forward to the day when I'd have enough courage to write about my thoughts and feelings and be able to say, this is my letter to the world who never wrote to me... ;)
April 3, 2022
Bring me the sunset in a cup...
Beautifully written and cunningly meaningful, the poems of Emily Dickinson are meditations on love, God, nature, life and death.
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
Beautifully written and cunningly meaningful, the poems of Emily Dickinson are meditations on love, God, nature, life and death.
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
November 28, 2016
Introduction
--Poems
Acknowledgments
Previous Collections
Subject Index
Index of First Lines
--Poems
Acknowledgments
Previous Collections
Subject Index
Index of First Lines
February 23, 2017
Sweet skepticism of the Heart-
That knows - and does not know-
Sometimes there is only one place to go: within, where the mind and body communicate poetically. Those poets of her time, they stayed securely snuggled into their worlds, while she traversed the unbeaten paths around them, creating abstract spaces made tangible through musicality. They stayed within their conformed art and hers elevated both the physical and mental, while she wrote from a house they deemed her prison, but one that would become this artist's fortress.
Shall I take thee, the Poet said
To the propounded word?
"She was aware of external standards but did not strive to adhere to them." They wrote with one accord, while she created her own rules: dashes to replace punctuation, incorrect spelling, melancholia refined through unique language and made beautiful on the page.
Shame is the shawl of Pink
In which we wrap the Soul
To keep it from infesting Eyes-
The elemental Veil
She didn't marry, didn't do many of the things expected of a woman living in her century. In fact it took a while for her art to be seriously recognized. Still, she wrote. She wrote to figure out the pain she lived with. She wrote to conquer her fears. She wrote to bring us introspection through the word. And when she had no friends, when she was betrayed by lovers, she wrote about the solace she found in Nature, the peace she found in the still of the universe.
My best Acquaintances are those
With Whom I spoke no Word -
Over the years, I've read a few of her poems here and there, but this edition, this collection, is my favorite. It is one to have on the shelf and revisit. I stayed with this for some time, savored Dickinson's words, viewed the world through her poet's eyes, as I followed the chronological organization of her poems. The poems are arranged according to years, 1850 and onwards, towards the 1880s, around the time of her death (although the numbering is different which is a bit annoying because Dickinson's poems rely on numbers as titles). 1877 I think is my favorite year, when some of her longer poems occur, at times both scathingly introspective and inclusive of the natural world, confident, opinionated.
That knows - and does not know-
Sometimes there is only one place to go: within, where the mind and body communicate poetically. Those poets of her time, they stayed securely snuggled into their worlds, while she traversed the unbeaten paths around them, creating abstract spaces made tangible through musicality. They stayed within their conformed art and hers elevated both the physical and mental, while she wrote from a house they deemed her prison, but one that would become this artist's fortress.
Shall I take thee, the Poet said
To the propounded word?
"She was aware of external standards but did not strive to adhere to them." They wrote with one accord, while she created her own rules: dashes to replace punctuation, incorrect spelling, melancholia refined through unique language and made beautiful on the page.
Shame is the shawl of Pink
In which we wrap the Soul
To keep it from infesting Eyes-
The elemental Veil
She didn't marry, didn't do many of the things expected of a woman living in her century. In fact it took a while for her art to be seriously recognized. Still, she wrote. She wrote to figure out the pain she lived with. She wrote to conquer her fears. She wrote to bring us introspection through the word. And when she had no friends, when she was betrayed by lovers, she wrote about the solace she found in Nature, the peace she found in the still of the universe.
My best Acquaintances are those
With Whom I spoke no Word -
Over the years, I've read a few of her poems here and there, but this edition, this collection, is my favorite. It is one to have on the shelf and revisit. I stayed with this for some time, savored Dickinson's words, viewed the world through her poet's eyes, as I followed the chronological organization of her poems. The poems are arranged according to years, 1850 and onwards, towards the 1880s, around the time of her death (although the numbering is different which is a bit annoying because Dickinson's poems rely on numbers as titles). 1877 I think is my favorite year, when some of her longer poems occur, at times both scathingly introspective and inclusive of the natural world, confident, opinionated.
August 24, 2018
Este poemario me vino perfecto para atravesar unos meses difíciles donde realmente necesitaba volcarme en algo que no fuera prosa. La poesía siempre me acompaña cuando las cosas se ponen turbias, y los poemas de Dickinson siempre me dieron refugio. Seguramente relea mil veces más este bello poemario, que por cierto, destaco de esta edición puntual la acertada traducción de Silvina Ocampo.
December 17, 2015
They shut me up in Prose —I recently ran across an argument against eBooks that went along the lines of suspicions of censorship, commenting on how easy it would be for publishers and the like to change the text at any point via the digital interface, obfuscating any spot of material at any point thought necessary and rendering the interaction between reader and reading as puppet and puppeteer. A plausible occurrence, but an old one. Technology does not birth new abuses of communication and truth; it merely expedites, and leaves a different trail.
As when a little Girl
They put me in the Closet —
Because they liked me “still” —
Still! Could themself have peeped —
And seen my Brain — go round —
They might as wise have lodged a Bird
For Treason — in the Pound —
Himself has but to will
And easy as a Star
Abolish his Captivity —
And laugh — No more have I —
A century and a quarter after Dickinson's death, almost sixty years after the last of her poems were finally published as they were meant to be, and still much too much is made of the means by which she composed. Never mind the seven years of higher learning, the keen network of letters enabling a vibrant circle of thought, the oeuvre itself in its wondrous breadth and brilliant insight that puts many a classical novel to shame. No, let us instead focus on how weird she was, how closeted her life, how quiet her compositions, how we rescued her work from the dire abyss and shaped it for the public whims and fancies as to how an American gentlewoman of that day and age should have written. How easy it is for us to focus on the cutesy trifles, the small morbidities, the things we call experimentation in men and "capriciousness" in women, that last word courtesy of Thomas H. Johnson, editor extraordinaire. So proud he was of his complete collection and yet still couldn't give his scholarly focus the benefit of the doubt.
Endow the Living — with the Tears —One favor Johnson did well enough when he wasn't patronizing his chosen poet was accompany every poem with two years: one of composition, the other of publication. The first of the review was written 1862, published 1935. The second also 1862, yet published 1945. Once the anger at such mincing censorship has cooled, the text becomes invaluable, for here is a shameless record of piece by piece persistence of a work through the consternation of the ages. Paranoia inspired by digital outposts has nothing on a history of flagrant editing, closeting, disbelief and pride, till the author finally gets her due in her own words if not those of others.
You squander on the Dead,
And They were Men and Women — now,
Around Your Fireside —
Instead of Passive Creatures,
Denied the Cherishing
Till They — the Cherishing deny —
With Death's Ethereal Scorn —
God is indeed a jealous God —Written unknown, published 1945. Multifaceted the academics say, as if this wasn't a lifetime contained in 1,775 proofs of existence whose range of thematic material could have easily come together into one of those weighty tomes popularized by those with sufficient freedom of time and respect of endeavor by both Self and Other. Thought, Truth, Ethics, Creation, Creed, Deserving Pride, Bound Despair, Fragility of Self, Violence of Intellectual Development, Inexorable Stretching of Time from Second to Eternity and All the Survival Between, to name just a few of the topics captured so surely in succinct measures in some of my favorites of hers, thirty-one in total and not a single one seen before in high school classrooms and other variations on the popularity context. If you want the scale of a legacy of ungrateful disrespect, try Moby-Dick; or, The Whale on for size. Now make Melville a woman.
He cannot bear to see
That we had rather not with Him
But with each other play.
His Mind like Fabrics of the EastWritten 1878, published 1945. Even her compositional submission to virulent androcentrism couldn't revive this particular piece till near seventy years went by. Her mind was a marvel and knew it, too, clear evidence in her just contempt, her needful compartmentalization, her courting with the furthest ends of triumph and sheer oblivion. She never needed to go to war to know the futility of achieving glory and fame by means of homicidal finality, nor venture far from her chosen methodology of creation to contemplate the rise and fall of Life and Ideal the world over. Milton was blind when he conjured up Paradise Lost through dictation to his daughters, and nary a murmur that mayhap some of the result was her or her own. Dickinson was a woman who found the means to contemplate; the rest is sordid history and ugly present.
Displayed to the despair
Of everyone but here and there
An humble Purchaser —
For though his price was not of Gold —
More arduous there is —
That one should comprehend the worth
Was all the price there was —
Witchcraft was hung, in History,Written 1883, published 1945.
But History and I
Find all the Witchcraft that we need
Around us, every Day —
I think I was enchantedWritten 1862, published 1935.
When first a somber Girl —
I read that Foreign Lady —
The Dark — felt beautiful —
[...]
[...]Written 1861, published 1896. Whitman's multitudes came first, but Dickinson knew the difference then as bitingly as she would now. She was dead when others came to rifle through her work, and still they insisted on putting it and her persona through the torturous paces of then till today. Her words excavated themselves long before technology came into play; how long till we stop pretending otherwise?
My Splendors, are Menagerie —
But their Completeless Show
Will entertain the Centuries
When I, am long ago,
An Island in dishonored Grass —
Whom none but Beetles — know.
P.S. She talked about the Birds and the Bees a lot. Just saying.
October 26, 2009
Emily Dickinson articulates my own thoughts and feelings in a way I never could. She manifests my ideal. She validates my existence. If you like Emily, I like you.
I hide myself within my flower,
That wearing on your breast,
You, unsuspecting, wear me too—
And angels know the rest.
I hide myself within my flower,
That, fading from your vase,
You, unsuspecting, feel for me
Almost a loneliness.
I hide myself within my flower,
That wearing on your breast,
You, unsuspecting, wear me too—
And angels know the rest.
I hide myself within my flower,
That, fading from your vase,
You, unsuspecting, feel for me
Almost a loneliness.
March 19, 2013
“I taste a liquor never brewed” by Emily Dickinson
I taste a liquor never brewed –
From Tankards scooped in Pearl –
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of air – am I –
And Debauchee of Dew –
Reeling – thro' endless summer days –
From inns of molten Blue –
When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove's door –
When Butterflies – renounce their "drams" –
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats –
And Saints – to windows run –
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the – Sun!
Inebriated by poetry
"I taste a liquor never brewed" a poem by E. Dickinson
For me, this is an hymn to poetry and what is sacred about the act of writing. I read line after line as an invocation to beauty in all its natural forms until I got drunk with it, until I, the reader, was able to reach the heavens and join its inhabitants, Seraphs and Saints, along with Emily, who is writing from there.
In this sense, I guess that we, the readers who are able to share beauty through words, are rewarded with the admittance in Dickinson's house of possibility and poetry.
The poem read also as an hymn for me because of its musicality and rhyme which I became aware of when I first read the poem out loud. The way the words sang by themselves came as a surprise, and the lack of punctuation, only the dashes and the capital letters to emphasise some words, made the poem more open and infinite.
Analysing stanza by stanza, the poem starts with a reference to a certain liquor, which is a strange one, because it was never brewed and because its vastness wouldn't fit into such a huge river as the Rhine. There's also the reference to the ancient age of this liquor, because the Rhine, along with the Danube, appeared as important rivers in historical texts during the Roman Empire.
So, going forward, this strange alcohol, makes the " I " in this poem inebriated. I understand this " I " as the writer, in this case, Emily. She speaks of herself being drunk with this strange liquor, a liquor which comes from dew, air and summer days melted in endless blue skies. As I see it, in this second stanza, Emily is describing the beauty of the natural world as overwhelming, she is dizzy, intoxicated with it, and she drinks it in the inns of Nature.
And in the third stanza she stresses out this last idea even more, because the more the inhabitants of this natural world, the bee, the foxglove, the butterfly, are denied by foreign "Landlords", emphasised by quotation marks, the more she drinks of this natural liquor, the more inebriated she becomes.
As for the interpretation of these Landlords, I take it as if they were the real world, the rationality, Emily's house of prose. The ones who call the imagination back to earth and out of this world of poetry and possibility.
The last stanza is for me, the most difficult to analyse.
Emily is intoxicated by the beauty of nature and ultimately, of poetry, but she keeps drinking and drinking in it, until the whole act of writing becomes sacred. I understand that she reaches heaven in the Biblical sense, and salvation if I dare say. I'll risk it by saying that this "Tippler" might be Jesus, leaning against this sun, this shinning light, waiting for her to reach out for her destiny, her fate, her mission in life, which is to write, to become a poet.
And just another conclusion after rereading the whole thing again.
I also think, that the metaphor of liquor and inebriation is not a casual one.
If you think of men drinking in inns and socialising in the XIXth century, you might wonder how a reclusive person as Emily might view this kind of activity. Surely she might have disapproved of someone getting drunk, and this poem might also be a criticism to such behaviour and at the same time, she elevates something she finds ugly or negative to an utterly magnificent and celestial act, the act of writing, proving its capacity to transform the dull world of reality into a beautiful fan of possibilities.
I taste a liquor never brewed –
From Tankards scooped in Pearl –
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of air – am I –
And Debauchee of Dew –
Reeling – thro' endless summer days –
From inns of molten Blue –
When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove's door –
When Butterflies – renounce their "drams" –
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats –
And Saints – to windows run –
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the – Sun!
Inebriated by poetry
"I taste a liquor never brewed" a poem by E. Dickinson
For me, this is an hymn to poetry and what is sacred about the act of writing. I read line after line as an invocation to beauty in all its natural forms until I got drunk with it, until I, the reader, was able to reach the heavens and join its inhabitants, Seraphs and Saints, along with Emily, who is writing from there.
In this sense, I guess that we, the readers who are able to share beauty through words, are rewarded with the admittance in Dickinson's house of possibility and poetry.
The poem read also as an hymn for me because of its musicality and rhyme which I became aware of when I first read the poem out loud. The way the words sang by themselves came as a surprise, and the lack of punctuation, only the dashes and the capital letters to emphasise some words, made the poem more open and infinite.
Analysing stanza by stanza, the poem starts with a reference to a certain liquor, which is a strange one, because it was never brewed and because its vastness wouldn't fit into such a huge river as the Rhine. There's also the reference to the ancient age of this liquor, because the Rhine, along with the Danube, appeared as important rivers in historical texts during the Roman Empire.
So, going forward, this strange alcohol, makes the " I " in this poem inebriated. I understand this " I " as the writer, in this case, Emily. She speaks of herself being drunk with this strange liquor, a liquor which comes from dew, air and summer days melted in endless blue skies. As I see it, in this second stanza, Emily is describing the beauty of the natural world as overwhelming, she is dizzy, intoxicated with it, and she drinks it in the inns of Nature.
And in the third stanza she stresses out this last idea even more, because the more the inhabitants of this natural world, the bee, the foxglove, the butterfly, are denied by foreign "Landlords", emphasised by quotation marks, the more she drinks of this natural liquor, the more inebriated she becomes.
As for the interpretation of these Landlords, I take it as if they were the real world, the rationality, Emily's house of prose. The ones who call the imagination back to earth and out of this world of poetry and possibility.
The last stanza is for me, the most difficult to analyse.
Emily is intoxicated by the beauty of nature and ultimately, of poetry, but she keeps drinking and drinking in it, until the whole act of writing becomes sacred. I understand that she reaches heaven in the Biblical sense, and salvation if I dare say. I'll risk it by saying that this "Tippler" might be Jesus, leaning against this sun, this shinning light, waiting for her to reach out for her destiny, her fate, her mission in life, which is to write, to become a poet.
And just another conclusion after rereading the whole thing again.
I also think, that the metaphor of liquor and inebriation is not a casual one.
If you think of men drinking in inns and socialising in the XIXth century, you might wonder how a reclusive person as Emily might view this kind of activity. Surely she might have disapproved of someone getting drunk, and this poem might also be a criticism to such behaviour and at the same time, she elevates something she finds ugly or negative to an utterly magnificent and celestial act, the act of writing, proving its capacity to transform the dull world of reality into a beautiful fan of possibilities.
February 10, 2023
Full disclosure: Younger, knowing only a few of the poems, and those in the dashless, regularized/bastardized versions, I didn't love them. Since, I've been endlessly grateful for how extraordinary, exhilarating, beguiling, strange, and admittedly sometimes still baffling but alive the poems are. I'm reading my way through once again, a few pages each a.m., and still in love with the work ("I'll tell you how the Sun rose--/A Ribbon at a time!") For me, the work remains exponentially more interesting than the lore/myth of the white-dress wearing spinster recluse who may or may not have had same-sex longings/encounters (though I understand the appeal of the bio). Oddly, I've encountered more than one otherwise serious reader who, when Dickinson is mentioned, exclaims (almost boastfully), "I hate her!" Having once myself not loved what little I knew of the poems, my theory is that anyone who hates the poems has not read enough and/or the right versions of them and may actually just not like poetry.
Read
April 7, 2021" Why do I love You, Sir ?
Because
The wind does not require the Grass
To answer - Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place .
Because He knows - and
Do not you -
And we know not -
Enough for Us
The wisdom it be so -
The Lightning - never asked an Eye
Wherefore it shut - when He was by -
Because He knows it cannot speak -
And reasons not contained -
Of Talk -
There be - preferred by Daintier Folk -
The Sunrise - Sire - compelleth me
Because He's Sunrise - and I see -
Therefore - Then -
I love Thee. "
Because
The wind does not require the Grass
To answer - Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place .
Because He knows - and
Do not you -
And we know not -
Enough for Us
The wisdom it be so -
The Lightning - never asked an Eye
Wherefore it shut - when He was by -
Because He knows it cannot speak -
And reasons not contained -
Of Talk -
There be - preferred by Daintier Folk -
The Sunrise - Sire - compelleth me
Because He's Sunrise - and I see -
Therefore - Then -
I love Thee. "
September 14, 2022
Settantanove
There was an old spinster named Emily
Who lived all her life with her family
But inside her small bedroom
She left us an heirloom
That outshines the sun’s bright immensity
A sinistra... / A destra...
.
There was an old spinster named Emily
Who lived all her life with her family
But inside her small bedroom
She left us an heirloom
That outshines the sun’s bright immensity
A sinistra... / A destra...
.
July 28, 2023
Благодарение на великолепните “Фигури” на Мария Попова, тази на Емили Дикинсън най-после взе да добива очертания за мен. На няколко пъти съм се срещала със стиховете и, но не му е било времето.
Простота, игривост, тъга, загадка, залутан слънчев лъч, надгробен ек на потънала във времето камбана, звънтяща в майските треви пчела… Дикисън всъщност е толкова ясна, толкова конкретна и толкова изплъзваща се. В нея има нещо от Дао, поръсено с щипка американски Запад.
Докосна ме преводът на Цветан Стоянов - оставил е всичките тирета на точното им място. Илюстрациите на Цветан Казанджиев са великолепно допълнение - абстрактни, топли и някак странно конкретни. А двуезичността на изданието е истинска наслада.
***
🌱Аз никоя съм. А ти кой си?
Ти също ли си никой?
Тогава двама сме. Но не издавай -
че те ще ни навикат.
***
🌱Аз от роса съм развратена -
и въздух смуча вместо вино.
Люлея се през дните летни
край изби от стопено синьо.
***
🌱Много безумие е най-върховен смисъл -
за поглед, който различава.
Мно��о смисъл е най-чистото безумие -
където множеството обладава.
***
🌱Надеждата е нещо хвърковато -
то, кацайки в душата - те намира -
и пее своята песничка без думи -
и никога не спира.
***
(Миналото)
🌱Ако го срещнеш без оръжие -
по-добре побегни -
че и неговата ръждясала пушка -
понякога - гърми.
***
🌱Плачът е нещо незначително -
въздишката - е нещо дребно.
Но от товара им натрупан
човек умира постепенно.
***
🌱От какво се прави ливада?
Нима не знаеш?
Трева -
и една пчела -
и да мечтаеш.
Ако пчелата не пристига -
мечтата стига.
Простота, игривост, тъга, загадка, залутан слънчев лъч, надгробен ек на потънала във времето камбана, звънтяща в майските треви пчела… Дикисън всъщност е толкова ясна, толкова конкретна и толкова изплъзваща се. В нея има нещо от Дао, поръсено с щипка американски Запад.
Докосна ме преводът на Цветан Стоянов - оставил е всичките тирета на точното им място. Илюстрациите на Цветан Казанджиев са великолепно допълнение - абстрактни, топли и някак странно конкретни. А двуезичността на изданието е истинска наслада.
***
🌱Аз никоя съм. А ти кой си?
Ти също ли си никой?
Тогава двама сме. Но не издавай -
че те ще ни навикат.
***
🌱Аз от роса съм развратена -
и въздух смуча вместо вино.
Люлея се през дните летни
край изби от стопено синьо.
***
🌱Много безумие е най-върховен смисъл -
за поглед, който различава.
Мно��о смисъл е най-чистото безумие -
където множеството обладава.
***
🌱Надеждата е нещо хвърковато -
то, кацайки в душата - те намира -
и пее своята песничка без думи -
и никога не спира.
***
(Миналото)
🌱Ако го срещнеш без оръжие -
по-добре побегни -
че и неговата ръждясала пушка -
понякога - гърми.
***
🌱Плачът е нещо незначително -
въздишката - е нещо дребно.
Но от товара им натрупан
човек умира постепенно.
***
🌱От какво се прави ливада?
Нима не знаеш?
Трева -
и една пчела -
и да мечтаеш.
Ако пчелата не пристига -
мечтата стига.
February 13, 2017
This book boasts a fabulous collection of work's by Emily Dickinson. Admittedly, I didn't enjoy all of them, hence the four stars given, but the majority of the poem's were beautifully written, as well as being rather thought provoking.
"He fumbles at your spirit
As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
He stuns you by degrees,
Prepares your brittle substance
For the ethereal blow,
By fainter hammers, further heard,
Then nearer, then so slow
Your breath has time to straighten.
Your brain to bubble cool,-
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul"
"He fumbles at your spirit
As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
He stuns you by degrees,
Prepares your brittle substance
For the ethereal blow,
By fainter hammers, further heard,
Then nearer, then so slow
Your breath has time to straighten.
Your brain to bubble cool,-
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul"
February 10, 2023
Full disclosure: Younger, knowing just a few of the poems--and those in the dashless, bastardized versions--I didn't love them. I've since been endlessly grateful for how extraordinary, exhilarating, beguiling, strange, and admittedly sometimes still baffling but alive the poems are. I'm rereading my way through again, a few pages each morning, and still in love with the work. (For me, the poems are x times more interesting than the legend of the white dress-wearing, quite possibly queer recluse spinster.) Oddly, I've encountered more than one seasoned poetry reader/writer who, when Dickinson is discussed, exclaims (almost boastfully), "I hate her!" My judgmental theory is that anyone who hates Emily Dickinson hasn't read enough of her and may actually just not like poems.
June 27, 2017
4 stars
After reading through most of these poems, Emily remains one of my top favorite poets. However, I also came across many poems that I felt no connection with and frankly made no sense to me. So with that in mind, I unfortunately couldn't give this 5 stars. Still a great experience though!
I highly recommend this book if you're a fan of poetry and/or Emily Dickinson.
After reading through most of these poems, Emily remains one of my top favorite poets. However, I also came across many poems that I felt no connection with and frankly made no sense to me. So with that in mind, I unfortunately couldn't give this 5 stars. Still a great experience though!
I highly recommend this book if you're a fan of poetry and/or Emily Dickinson.
December 9, 2022
I cannot state with any accuracy my fondness for this woman. I am always fond of LGBT writers (Probably because I am one), and Emily sits upon the pinnacle for me; with company such as Oscar Wilde. Her mind was beautiful, and her writing is timeless. It is a great tragedy that she could not explore the love she so obviously longed for in the time period that her life inhabited.
Masterful letter writer, brilliant poet, and iconic woman. I do not feel as empathetically and passionately connected to any other literary figure as I do with Dickinson. If heaven is real (Which I highly doubt, but bear with me)- and one can truly see or do anything they wish - I hope I meet her there.
Masterful letter writer, brilliant poet, and iconic woman. I do not feel as empathetically and passionately connected to any other literary figure as I do with Dickinson. If heaven is real (Which I highly doubt, but bear with me)- and one can truly see or do anything they wish - I hope I meet her there.
August 20, 2007
I love Dickinson. More specifically, I love the sense of balance I feel when reading any of her poems. Her poetry has light within its overwhelming darkness; it is straightforward yet subtle. Its originality is sometimes even startling. I have learned so much in reading her work but the most powerful of lessons I take from Dickinson is to "Tell all the truth but tell it slant... The Truth must dazzle gradually/ Or every man be blind."
Currently reading
April 1, 2024Still in progress
Favourite lines/poems:
Poems 1–100
(7)
Night is the morning's Canvas
Larceny — legacy —
Death, but our rapt attention
To Immortality.
note: We 'die' every night and 'reborn' every morning
(15)
The Guest is gold and crimson
An Opal guest and gray —
Of Ermine is his doublet —
His Capuchin gay —
He reaches town at nightfall —
He stops at every door —
Who looks for him at morning
I pray him too — explore
The Lark's pure territory —
Or the Lapwing's shore!
note: Personification of the Sunset/Death
Poems 100–200
(125)
For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the Ecstasy.
For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears.
note: Describes the relationship of joy and pain
(162)
My River runs to thee.
Blue sea, wilt thou welcome me?
My river awaits reply.
Oh! Sea, look graciously.
I'll fetch thee brooks
From spotted nooks.
Say, sea,
Take me!
note: Emily, as the River, asks the Sea to take her in. The Sea could be interpreted as a lover/God/longing for death.
(179)
If I could bribe them by a Rose
I'd bring them every flower that grows
From Amherst to Cashmere!
I would not stop for night, or storm —
Or frost, or death, or anyone —
My business were so dear!
note: Is about the willingness to do everything in your power to achieve something. The rest of the poem leaves open what that exactly is, but it could be inclusion by people she loves/getting her poetry published/getting into Heaven.
(183)
I’ve heard an Organ talk, sometimes
In a Cathedral Aisle,
And understood no word it said
Yet held my breath, the while
And risen up and gone away,
A more Berdardine Girl
Yet know not what was done to me
In that old Hallowed Aisle.
note: Religious sites have a mesmerizing effect on people, I think
Poems 200–300
(233)
The Lamp burns sure — within —
Tho' Serfs — supply the Oil —
It matters not the busy Wick —
At her phosphoric toil!
The Slave — forgets — to fill —
The Lamp — burns golden — on —
Unconscious that the oil is out —
As that the Slave — is gone.
note: 1. The disconnection between the inner flame and the body 2. Critique of slavery (1861–1865. American Civil War)
(253)
You see I cannot see — your lifetime —
I must guess —
How many times it ache for me — today — Confess
How many times for my far sake
The brave eyes film — But I guess guessing hurts —
Mine — get so dim'
Too vague — the face —
My own — so patient — covers —
Too far — the strength —
My timidness enfolds —
Haunting the Heart —
Like her translated faces —
Teasing the want —
It — only — can suffice'
note: film: become covered with a thin layer of something
(258)
There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons —
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes —
Heavenly Hurt it gives us —
We can find no scar,
But Internal Difference —
Where the Meanings, are —
None may teach it — Any —
‘Tis the Seal Despair —
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air —
When it comes, the Landscape listens —
Shadows — hold their breath —
When it goes, ‘tis like the Distance
On the look of Death —
note: Unusual symbolism of light – carries a negative meaning
(280)
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading — treading — till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through —
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum —
Kept beating — beating — till I thought
My mind was going numb —
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space — began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here —
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down —
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing — then —
notes: I'm losing my mind over this one... And yes, pun intended, it's all an allegory for losing your mind.
(281)
'Tis so appalling — it exhilarates —
So over Horror, it half Captivates —
The Soul stares after it, secure —
A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more —
notes: Now we're really getting into her gothic poetry, and the first line is a paradox: so horrifying it was captivating.
(292)
If your Nerve, deny you —
Go above your Nerve —
He can lean against the Grave,
If he fear to swerve —
That's a steady posture —
Never any bend
Held of those Brass arms —
notes: That's how you send your anxiety to hell in a poetic way, I guess.
Poems 300–400
(301)
I reason, Earth is short —
And Anguish — absolute —
And many hurt,
But, what of that?
I reason, we could die —
The best Vitality
Cannot excel Decay,
But, what of that?
notes: She really said, we're going to suffer no matter what and die no matter what, but oh well.
(311)
It sifts from Leaden Sieves —
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road —
(...)
Then stills it’s Artisans — like Ghosts —
Denying they have been —
notes: Who needs Christmas songs, when Emily Dickinson describes snow as Alabaster Wool, snow clouds as Leaden Sieves and the snow covered world as Ghosts — Denying they have been?
(314)
Fainter Leaves — to Further Seasons —
Dumbly testify —
We — who have the Souls —
Die oftener — Not so vitally —
notes: Compares the unconscious nature with the pain and suffering that comes from human consciousness.
(315)
He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys
Before they drop full Music on —
He stuns you by degrees —
Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers — further heard —
Then nearer — Then so slow —
Your Breath has time to straighten —
Your Brain — to bubble Cool —
Deals — One — imperial Thunderbolt —
That scalps your naked Soul —
notes: God/a deity playing with the soul as a pianist plays on a piano.
(351)
I felt my life with both my hands
To see if it was there —
I held my spirit to the Glass,
To prove it possibler —
I turned my Being round and round
And paused at every pound
To ask the Owner's name —
For doubt, that I should know the sound —
notes: She definietly describes a state where she's disconnected from her body.
(371)
When Plato — was a Certainty —
And Sophocles — a Man —
When Sappho — was a living Girl —
And Beatrice wore
The Gown that Dante — deified —
Facts Centuries before
He traverses — familiar —
As One should come to Town —
And tell you all your Dreams — were true —
He lived — where Dreams were born —
notes: The first stanza gives away that "he" is an antique book.
deified: personified as a deity
(383)
Exhiliration — is within —
There can no Outer Wine
So royally intoxicate
As that diviner Brand
The Soul achieves — Herself —
To drink — or set away
For Visitor — Or Sacrament —
notes: Describes a state of euphoria that doesn't come from an external source, like wine, but from the soul.
(390)
It's coming — the postponeless Creature —
It gains the Block — and now — it gains the Door —
Chooses its latch, from all the other fastenings —
Enters — with a "You know me — Sir"?
notes: Emily Dickinson's death metaphors are always iconic. Who's knocking on your door? The postponeless Creature, well you sure cannot postpone Death. And the Door is a gateway to death. We're finally getting a little more symbolism from Dickinson.
Poems 400–500
(410)
And Something's odd – within –
That person that I was –
And this One – do not feel the same –
Could it be Madness – this?
notes: Same theme as in I felt a Funeral, in my Brain
(419)
We grow accustomed to the Dark —
When Light is put away —
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye —
A Moment — We Uncertain step
For newness of the night —
Then — fit our Vision to the Dark —
And meet the Road — erect —
And so of larger — Darknesses —
Those Evenings of the Brain —
When not a Moon disclose a sign —
Or Star — come out — within —
The Bravest — grope a little —
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead —
But as they learn to see —
Either the Darkness alters —
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight —
And Life steps almost straight.
notes: Compares the eye's adaptability to dark with the mind's adaptability to difficulties
(425)
Good Morning — Midnight —
I'm coming Home —
Day — got tired of Me —
How could I — of Him?
Sunshine was a sweet place —
I liked to stay —
But Morn — didn't want me — now —
So — Goodnight — Day!
I can look — can't I —
When the East is Red?
The Hills — have a way — then —
That puts the Heart — abroad —
You — are not so fair — Midnight —
I chose — Day —
But — please take a little Girl —
He turned away!
notes: Probably about death but in an innocent style
(434)
However, dear,
Forever might be short, I thought to show —
And so I pieced it, with a flower, now.
notes: It may be a Sue poem...
(446)
I showed her Heights she never saw —
"Would'st Climb," I said?
She said — "Not so" —
"With me — " I said — With me?
I showed her Secrets — Morning's Nest —
The Rope the Nights were put across —
And now — "Would'st have me for a Guest?"
She could not find her Yes —
And then, I brake my life — And Lo,
A Light, for her, did solemn glow,
The larger, as her face withdrew —
And could she, further, "No"?
notes: It's definitely a Sue poem.
(463)
I live with Him — I see His face —
I go no more away
For Visitor — or Sundown —
Death's single privacy
The Only One — forestalling Mine —
And that — by Right that He
Presents a Claim invisible —
No wedlock — granted Me —
I live with Him — I hear His Voice —
I stand alive — Today —
To witness to the Certainty
Of Immortality —
Taught Me — by Time — the lower Way —
Conviction — Every day —
That Life like This — is stopless —
Be Judgment — what it may —
notes: Taking in Death gave her a sense of immortality and freedom
(479)
She dealt her pretty words like Blades —
How glittering they shone —
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone —
She never deemed — she hurt —
That — is not Steel's Affair —
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh —
How ill the Creatures bear —
To Ache is human — not polite —
The Film upon the eye
Mortality's old Custom —
Just locking up — to Die.
notes: In the first stanza there's a woman who hurt the narrator with her words (very sharp imagery if you ask me) and the second stanza tells us that she was unaware of the hurt she caused. And the last one says it's human to be in pain, but when you show signs that you're in pain it's not 'polite' and it's not accepted by society.
(490)
To One denied to drink
To tell what Water is
Would be acuter, would it not
Than letting Him surmise?
To lead Him to the Well
And let Him hear it drip
Remind Him, would it not, somewhat
Of His condemned lip?
notes: I like how this one outlines a general concept and doesn't specify what it means by Water. One interpretation could be freedom for example.
Poems 500–600
(530)
You cannot put a Fire out —
A Thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a Fan —
Upon the slowest Night —
You cannot fold a Flood —
And put it in a Drawer —
Because the Winds would find it out —
And tell your Cedar Floor —
notes: Nature has a sort of untameable, raw power. It's Fire keeps burning regardless of the circumstances, and if you try to lock something as powerful as a Flood in a drawer (I love this idea) it will burst out to the floor. And a similar power can be found in the soul.
(557)
"She hideth Her the last —
And is the first, to rise —
Her Night doth hardly recompense
The Closing of Her eyes —
She doth Her Purple Work —
And putteth Her away
In low apartments in the sod -
As Worthily as We.
To imitate Her life
As impotent would be
As make of Our imperfect Mints,
The Julep — of the Bee —"
notes: "For Dickinson purple is her favorite color; a mysterious one, the symbol of divinity and sovereignty, hope and good judgment, royalty and dignity, a source of inspiration and spiritual relieve with its fulfillment, and the color of meditation and pure thought." (Hazha Hassan)
(561)
"I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, eyes —
I wonder if It weighs like Mine —
Or has an Easier size.
I wonder if They bore it long —
Or did it just begin —
I could not tell the Date of Mine —
It feels so old a pain —
I wonder if it hurts to live —
And if They have to try —
And whether — could They choose between —
It would not be — to die —
I note that Some — gone patient long —
At length, renew their smile —
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil —
I wonder if when Years have piled —
Some Thousands — on the Harm —
That hurt them Early — such a lapse
Could give them any Balm —
Or would They go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve —
Enlightened to a larger Pain -
In Contrast with the Love —
The Grieved — are many — I am told —
There is the various Cause —
Death — is but one — and comes but once —
And only nails the eyes —
There's Grief of Want — and Grief of Cold —
A sort they call "Despair" —
There's Banishment from native Eyes —
In sight of Native Air —
And though I may not guess the kind —
Correctly — yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary —
To note the fashions — of the Cross —
And how they're mostly worn —
Still fascinated to presume
That Some — are like My Own —"
notes: This is how someone writes in a way that's still reletable after a hundred years
Favourite lines/poems:
Poems 1–100
(7)
Night is the morning's Canvas
Larceny — legacy —
Death, but our rapt attention
To Immortality.
note: We 'die' every night and 'reborn' every morning
(15)
The Guest is gold and crimson
An Opal guest and gray —
Of Ermine is his doublet —
His Capuchin gay —
He reaches town at nightfall —
He stops at every door —
Who looks for him at morning
I pray him too — explore
The Lark's pure territory —
Or the Lapwing's shore!
note: Personification of the Sunset/Death
Poems 100–200
(125)
For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the Ecstasy.
For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears.
note: Describes the relationship of joy and pain
(162)
My River runs to thee.
Blue sea, wilt thou welcome me?
My river awaits reply.
Oh! Sea, look graciously.
I'll fetch thee brooks
From spotted nooks.
Say, sea,
Take me!
note: Emily, as the River, asks the Sea to take her in. The Sea could be interpreted as a lover/God/longing for death.
(179)
If I could bribe them by a Rose
I'd bring them every flower that grows
From Amherst to Cashmere!
I would not stop for night, or storm —
Or frost, or death, or anyone —
My business were so dear!
note: Is about the willingness to do everything in your power to achieve something. The rest of the poem leaves open what that exactly is, but it could be inclusion by people she loves/getting her poetry published/getting into Heaven.
(183)
I’ve heard an Organ talk, sometimes
In a Cathedral Aisle,
And understood no word it said
Yet held my breath, the while
And risen up and gone away,
A more Berdardine Girl
Yet know not what was done to me
In that old Hallowed Aisle.
note: Religious sites have a mesmerizing effect on people, I think
Poems 200–300
(233)
The Lamp burns sure — within —
Tho' Serfs — supply the Oil —
It matters not the busy Wick —
At her phosphoric toil!
The Slave — forgets — to fill —
The Lamp — burns golden — on —
Unconscious that the oil is out —
As that the Slave — is gone.
note: 1. The disconnection between the inner flame and the body 2. Critique of slavery (1861–1865. American Civil War)
(253)
You see I cannot see — your lifetime —
I must guess —
How many times it ache for me — today — Confess
How many times for my far sake
The brave eyes film — But I guess guessing hurts —
Mine — get so dim'
Too vague — the face —
My own — so patient — covers —
Too far — the strength —
My timidness enfolds —
Haunting the Heart —
Like her translated faces —
Teasing the want —
It — only — can suffice'
note: film: become covered with a thin layer of something
(258)
There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons —
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes —
Heavenly Hurt it gives us —
We can find no scar,
But Internal Difference —
Where the Meanings, are —
None may teach it — Any —
‘Tis the Seal Despair —
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air —
When it comes, the Landscape listens —
Shadows — hold their breath —
When it goes, ‘tis like the Distance
On the look of Death —
note: Unusual symbolism of light – carries a negative meaning
(280)
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading — treading — till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through —
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum —
Kept beating — beating — till I thought
My mind was going numb —
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space — began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here —
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down —
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing — then —
notes: I'm losing my mind over this one... And yes, pun intended, it's all an allegory for losing your mind.
(281)
'Tis so appalling — it exhilarates —
So over Horror, it half Captivates —
The Soul stares after it, secure —
A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more —
notes: Now we're really getting into her gothic poetry, and the first line is a paradox: so horrifying it was captivating.
(292)
If your Nerve, deny you —
Go above your Nerve —
He can lean against the Grave,
If he fear to swerve —
That's a steady posture —
Never any bend
Held of those Brass arms —
notes: That's how you send your anxiety to hell in a poetic way, I guess.
Poems 300–400
(301)
I reason, Earth is short —
And Anguish — absolute —
And many hurt,
But, what of that?
I reason, we could die —
The best Vitality
Cannot excel Decay,
But, what of that?
notes: She really said, we're going to suffer no matter what and die no matter what, but oh well.
(311)
It sifts from Leaden Sieves —
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road —
(...)
Then stills it’s Artisans — like Ghosts —
Denying they have been —
notes: Who needs Christmas songs, when Emily Dickinson describes snow as Alabaster Wool, snow clouds as Leaden Sieves and the snow covered world as Ghosts — Denying they have been?
(314)
Fainter Leaves — to Further Seasons —
Dumbly testify —
We — who have the Souls —
Die oftener — Not so vitally —
notes: Compares the unconscious nature with the pain and suffering that comes from human consciousness.
(315)
He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys
Before they drop full Music on —
He stuns you by degrees —
Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers — further heard —
Then nearer — Then so slow —
Your Breath has time to straighten —
Your Brain — to bubble Cool —
Deals — One — imperial Thunderbolt —
That scalps your naked Soul —
notes: God/a deity playing with the soul as a pianist plays on a piano.
(351)
I felt my life with both my hands
To see if it was there —
I held my spirit to the Glass,
To prove it possibler —
I turned my Being round and round
And paused at every pound
To ask the Owner's name —
For doubt, that I should know the sound —
notes: She definietly describes a state where she's disconnected from her body.
(371)
When Plato — was a Certainty —
And Sophocles — a Man —
When Sappho — was a living Girl —
And Beatrice wore
The Gown that Dante — deified —
Facts Centuries before
He traverses — familiar —
As One should come to Town —
And tell you all your Dreams — were true —
He lived — where Dreams were born —
notes: The first stanza gives away that "he" is an antique book.
deified: personified as a deity
(383)
Exhiliration — is within —
There can no Outer Wine
So royally intoxicate
As that diviner Brand
The Soul achieves — Herself —
To drink — or set away
For Visitor — Or Sacrament —
notes: Describes a state of euphoria that doesn't come from an external source, like wine, but from the soul.
(390)
It's coming — the postponeless Creature —
It gains the Block — and now — it gains the Door —
Chooses its latch, from all the other fastenings —
Enters — with a "You know me — Sir"?
notes: Emily Dickinson's death metaphors are always iconic. Who's knocking on your door? The postponeless Creature, well you sure cannot postpone Death. And the Door is a gateway to death. We're finally getting a little more symbolism from Dickinson.
Poems 400–500
(410)
And Something's odd – within –
That person that I was –
And this One – do not feel the same –
Could it be Madness – this?
notes: Same theme as in I felt a Funeral, in my Brain
(419)
We grow accustomed to the Dark —
When Light is put away —
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye —
A Moment — We Uncertain step
For newness of the night —
Then — fit our Vision to the Dark —
And meet the Road — erect —
And so of larger — Darknesses —
Those Evenings of the Brain —
When not a Moon disclose a sign —
Or Star — come out — within —
The Bravest — grope a little —
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead —
But as they learn to see —
Either the Darkness alters —
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight —
And Life steps almost straight.
notes: Compares the eye's adaptability to dark with the mind's adaptability to difficulties
(425)
Good Morning — Midnight —
I'm coming Home —
Day — got tired of Me —
How could I — of Him?
Sunshine was a sweet place —
I liked to stay —
But Morn — didn't want me — now —
So — Goodnight — Day!
I can look — can't I —
When the East is Red?
The Hills — have a way — then —
That puts the Heart — abroad —
You — are not so fair — Midnight —
I chose — Day —
But — please take a little Girl —
He turned away!
notes: Probably about death but in an innocent style
(434)
However, dear,
Forever might be short, I thought to show —
And so I pieced it, with a flower, now.
notes: It may be a Sue poem...
(446)
I showed her Heights she never saw —
"Would'st Climb," I said?
She said — "Not so" —
"With me — " I said — With me?
I showed her Secrets — Morning's Nest —
The Rope the Nights were put across —
And now — "Would'st have me for a Guest?"
She could not find her Yes —
And then, I brake my life — And Lo,
A Light, for her, did solemn glow,
The larger, as her face withdrew —
And could she, further, "No"?
notes: It's definitely a Sue poem.
(463)
I live with Him — I see His face —
I go no more away
For Visitor — or Sundown —
Death's single privacy
The Only One — forestalling Mine —
And that — by Right that He
Presents a Claim invisible —
No wedlock — granted Me —
I live with Him — I hear His Voice —
I stand alive — Today —
To witness to the Certainty
Of Immortality —
Taught Me — by Time — the lower Way —
Conviction — Every day —
That Life like This — is stopless —
Be Judgment — what it may —
notes: Taking in Death gave her a sense of immortality and freedom
(479)
She dealt her pretty words like Blades —
How glittering they shone —
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone —
She never deemed — she hurt —
That — is not Steel's Affair —
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh —
How ill the Creatures bear —
To Ache is human — not polite —
The Film upon the eye
Mortality's old Custom —
Just locking up — to Die.
notes: In the first stanza there's a woman who hurt the narrator with her words (very sharp imagery if you ask me) and the second stanza tells us that she was unaware of the hurt she caused. And the last one says it's human to be in pain, but when you show signs that you're in pain it's not 'polite' and it's not accepted by society.
(490)
To One denied to drink
To tell what Water is
Would be acuter, would it not
Than letting Him surmise?
To lead Him to the Well
And let Him hear it drip
Remind Him, would it not, somewhat
Of His condemned lip?
notes: I like how this one outlines a general concept and doesn't specify what it means by Water. One interpretation could be freedom for example.
Poems 500–600
(530)
You cannot put a Fire out —
A Thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a Fan —
Upon the slowest Night —
You cannot fold a Flood —
And put it in a Drawer —
Because the Winds would find it out —
And tell your Cedar Floor —
notes: Nature has a sort of untameable, raw power. It's Fire keeps burning regardless of the circumstances, and if you try to lock something as powerful as a Flood in a drawer (I love this idea) it will burst out to the floor. And a similar power can be found in the soul.
(557)
"She hideth Her the last —
And is the first, to rise —
Her Night doth hardly recompense
The Closing of Her eyes —
She doth Her Purple Work —
And putteth Her away
In low apartments in the sod -
As Worthily as We.
To imitate Her life
As impotent would be
As make of Our imperfect Mints,
The Julep — of the Bee —"
notes: "For Dickinson purple is her favorite color; a mysterious one, the symbol of divinity and sovereignty, hope and good judgment, royalty and dignity, a source of inspiration and spiritual relieve with its fulfillment, and the color of meditation and pure thought." (Hazha Hassan)
(561)
"I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, eyes —
I wonder if It weighs like Mine —
Or has an Easier size.
I wonder if They bore it long —
Or did it just begin —
I could not tell the Date of Mine —
It feels so old a pain —
I wonder if it hurts to live —
And if They have to try —
And whether — could They choose between —
It would not be — to die —
I note that Some — gone patient long —
At length, renew their smile —
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil —
I wonder if when Years have piled —
Some Thousands — on the Harm —
That hurt them Early — such a lapse
Could give them any Balm —
Or would They go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve —
Enlightened to a larger Pain -
In Contrast with the Love —
The Grieved — are many — I am told —
There is the various Cause —
Death — is but one — and comes but once —
And only nails the eyes —
There's Grief of Want — and Grief of Cold —
A sort they call "Despair" —
There's Banishment from native Eyes —
In sight of Native Air —
And though I may not guess the kind —
Correctly — yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary —
To note the fashions — of the Cross —
And how they're mostly worn —
Still fascinated to presume
That Some — are like My Own —"
notes: This is how someone writes in a way that's still reletable after a hundred years
July 28, 2019
Twas such a little, little boat
That toddled down the bay!
‘T was such a gallant, gallant sea
That beckoned it away!
‘T was such a greedy, greedy wave
That licked it from the coast;
Nor ever guessed the stately sails
My little craft was lost!<\b>
Or this one,
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
“The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.<\b>
Immeasurable and prolific Emily Dickinson wrote nearly 2,000 poems. Upon reading this complete collection it is remarkable the sheer amount of beautiful opening lines, certainly more than any other poet that I’ve read. Dickinson’s poems are typically very short and heavily metaphorical.
Dickinson’s great gifts are that of a consummate observer — both of nature and of her immediate environment — and her propensity to draw metaphors. Her observations in many poems deal with the theme of depression. Dickinson we know was a bit of a hermit. She also was not really much of a story teller in the usual sense since she wrote no epic length poems. But her poetry holds up well considering most were penned prior to 1850. Since Dickinson did not provide titles for most of her poems editors often name the poem after the first line. I have followed their standard here. Here are my favorites. All are in the public domain.
1. Unreturning
2. The Brain within its Groove
3. A Service of Song
4. A Day
5. Autumn
6. I’m nobody, who are you?
7. In the Garden
8. November
9. I felt a funeral in my brain
10. Dead
11. Charlotte Bronte’s Grave
12. Nobody Knows this Little Rose
13. I fear a man of frugal speech
14. I never saw a moor
15. Dear March, Come In
16. Tis easier to pity those when dead
4.5 stars.
That toddled down the bay!
‘T was such a gallant, gallant sea
That beckoned it away!
‘T was such a greedy, greedy wave
That licked it from the coast;
Nor ever guessed the stately sails
My little craft was lost!<\b>
Or this one,
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
“The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.<\b>
Immeasurable and prolific Emily Dickinson wrote nearly 2,000 poems. Upon reading this complete collection it is remarkable the sheer amount of beautiful opening lines, certainly more than any other poet that I’ve read. Dickinson’s poems are typically very short and heavily metaphorical.
Dickinson’s great gifts are that of a consummate observer — both of nature and of her immediate environment — and her propensity to draw metaphors. Her observations in many poems deal with the theme of depression. Dickinson we know was a bit of a hermit. She also was not really much of a story teller in the usual sense since she wrote no epic length poems. But her poetry holds up well considering most were penned prior to 1850. Since Dickinson did not provide titles for most of her poems editors often name the poem after the first line. I have followed their standard here. Here are my favorites. All are in the public domain.
1. Unreturning
2. The Brain within its Groove
3. A Service of Song
4. A Day
5. Autumn
6. I’m nobody, who are you?
7. In the Garden
8. November
9. I felt a funeral in my brain
10. Dead
11. Charlotte Bronte’s Grave
12. Nobody Knows this Little Rose
13. I fear a man of frugal speech
14. I never saw a moor
15. Dear March, Come In
16. Tis easier to pity those when dead
4.5 stars.
August 22, 2015
The first time I consciously had contact with Emily Dickinson's poetry was when author and illustrator Chris Riddell posted one of his beautiful sketches on facebook decorating one of her poems. After that I knew I had to have a collection of her works.
Then I discovered the World Cloud Classics and it was the perfect edition in my opinion (this being the 3rd I have now).
I must say that I love poetry, always have, and although I don't always favour the kind of analysis being done in school (we all had to get through that), I do see and acknowledge autobiographical elements in works.
Here, as with Walt Whitman for example, it is remarkable that isolation and sickness resulted in the most fruitful creative period. What always gets to me is the tragedy of such lives and that in many cases (as with Emily Dickinson) none or only a handful of the works were being published / recognized while the author was alive, the true impact and significance of the works to be discovered only later.
And now for the poems themselves:
Amazing as it might be considering that the author spent almost all of her life indoors, her poems are of a wide range. Not actually knowing much of the world around her didn't stop her from writing about it (her favourite themes being nature and love, death and immortality, but also renunciation).
The prose is beautiful, I have no other word for it. To me it seemed like she must have been a quiet person but very intelligent and with powerful words; everyday-words artfully crafted into profound messages. I guess that is what I love so much about her.
Example:
„To make a prairie it takes a clover and a bee,
one clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.”
One of my teachers once said "The shorter the story, the more important every single word." and Emily Dickinson is proving that. Another example of a short poem that still has full impact:
"A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say -
I say it just
Begins to live
That day."
Or:
"I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea,
Yet know I how the Heather looks
And what a wave must be."
I could have included all those poems as pictures but somehow enjoyed tiping them myself. Yeah, I'm weird like that. Also, I could go on like this forever since there wasn't a single poem I really disliked, but the following one shall conclude my review since you are probably all getting my point. It's the poem docarated by Chris Riddell's illustration that started it all.
Then I discovered the World Cloud Classics and it was the perfect edition in my opinion (this being the 3rd I have now).
I must say that I love poetry, always have, and although I don't always favour the kind of analysis being done in school (we all had to get through that), I do see and acknowledge autobiographical elements in works.
Here, as with Walt Whitman for example, it is remarkable that isolation and sickness resulted in the most fruitful creative period. What always gets to me is the tragedy of such lives and that in many cases (as with Emily Dickinson) none or only a handful of the works were being published / recognized while the author was alive, the true impact and significance of the works to be discovered only later.
And now for the poems themselves:
Amazing as it might be considering that the author spent almost all of her life indoors, her poems are of a wide range. Not actually knowing much of the world around her didn't stop her from writing about it (her favourite themes being nature and love, death and immortality, but also renunciation).
The prose is beautiful, I have no other word for it. To me it seemed like she must have been a quiet person but very intelligent and with powerful words; everyday-words artfully crafted into profound messages. I guess that is what I love so much about her.
Example:
„To make a prairie it takes a clover and a bee,
one clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.”
One of my teachers once said "The shorter the story, the more important every single word." and Emily Dickinson is proving that. Another example of a short poem that still has full impact:
"A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say -
I say it just
Begins to live
That day."
Or:
"I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea,
Yet know I how the Heather looks
And what a wave must be."
I could have included all those poems as pictures but somehow enjoyed tiping them myself. Yeah, I'm weird like that. Also, I could go on like this forever since there wasn't a single poem I really disliked, but the following one shall conclude my review since you are probably all getting my point. It's the poem docarated by Chris Riddell's illustration that started it all.
August 3, 2016
Running upwards of 1,700 poems, there's no conceivable way I could read them all. I settled for maybe half. That's not to say I'm not tempted to read them all, but Dickinson is one of those fine poets who begin to run a little stale after the first 200 or so poems. Best to step off and return to it later.
Don't get me wrong, her innovative poetics is almost ghastly in its profundity, so much so that people use words like 'profundity' or say that she, who had no powers of prescience that her biographers are aware of, 'anticipated modernity', whatever that means. That means nothing. We don't need to place her. I think she was beyond that. Still is. Her poetry is almost drunken--staccato and broken and weird and refusing. In short, wonderful.
Don't get me wrong, her innovative poetics is almost ghastly in its profundity, so much so that people use words like 'profundity' or say that she, who had no powers of prescience that her biographers are aware of, 'anticipated modernity', whatever that means. That means nothing. We don't need to place her. I think she was beyond that. Still is. Her poetry is almost drunken--staccato and broken and weird and refusing. In short, wonderful.
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