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Silenzi
Testo originale a fronte
Sottoposta a correzioni e censure, travisata dai contemporanei che non capendola la vissero come il prodotto di un'immaginazione confusa, ristretta, romanticamente persa nella lettura delle Bibbia e nella ricerca dell'amore, la poesia di Emily Dickinson solo con l'edizione critica del 1955 è conosciuta nella sua forma originaria. Eppure anche le versioni in lingua italiana più recenti, salvo rare eccezioni, offuscano il senso che in quella poesia si racchiude, continuando a operare nei suoi confronti un conciliante addomesticamento. Con questa raccolta Barbara Lanati intende smentire l'immagine tuttora prevalente della Dickinson come vergine riservata, chiusa e timida del New England, la ragazza perbene vittima del potere del padre e del vittorianesimo imperante, e intende restituirne, con la traduzione, la scrittura inquieta e inquietante, astratta e insieme raffinatamente sensuale, sgorgata da una vita fatta di reclusione, silenzio.
Scabra, dura, ironica, spoglia di rime e facili assonanze che ne avrebbero ammorbidito il passo spasmodico, la poesia di Emily Dickinson trascrive l'esperienza di una donna che seppe abbracciare la condizione della solitudine e farne un provocatorio strumento di conoscenza e avvicinamento all'uomo, una donna che visse nell'ostinata interrogazione del silenzio e a quel silenzio riuscì a dare un corpo: la parola poetica.
201 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1890
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32916 people want to read
About the author
Emily Dickinson
1,552 books6,830 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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Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,388 reviews
August 14, 2022
The poetry conundrum.
Every few years the topic arises and I always say the same thing: “I hate poetry”. Nearly two decades later since the last time I read some, I feel it’s time to check if my automated response still holds true. IT DOES. I hate poetry. Half the time I don’t like it, the other half I don’t understand it. And what bothers to no end is that, unlike any other book I read, I cannot attach it to anything at all, a character, a place, a plot, nothing; it just feels so insubstantial!
Still, don’t let my appalling rating discourage you from trying, you can easily realize at first glance Emily Dickinson is one of the best, if not THE best in the field; so if you happen to enjoy poetry, she is undoubtedly a must.
The only poem I did like is “Forbidden Fruit II”, it’s very short and I think it’s spicy. Or at least I think it may be spicy. Is it spicy? I’m not really sure. I hate poetry.
Honest review,
Emily D. excels;
poetry sublime,
her prose the best.
Tears of poetry I loathe,
stop pages come forth;
I must abandon this read,
or pluck out my eyes instead.
-----------------------------------------------
PERSONAL NOTE :
[1890] [54p] [Poetry] [Not Recommendable]
[Lost Thought, Evening and In Vain were ok I guess]
[Goodbye Poetry, see you in another twenty years or less]
-----------------------------------------------
El enigma de la poesía.
Cada tantos años el tema resurge y siempre digo lo mismo: “Odio la poesía”. Casi dos décadas después desde la última vez que leí algo, siento que es la hora de ver si mi respuesta automática sigue siendo cierta: LO ES. Odio la poesía. La mitad del tiempo no me gusta, la otra mitad no la entiendo. Y lo que me molesta en demasía es que, a diferencia de cualquier otro libro que leo, no puedo asociarla a nada en absoluto, un personaje, un lugar, una trama, nada; ¡se siente tan insustancial!
Aun así, no dejes que mi pésimo puntaje te desaliente de probar, es fácil ver a simple vista que Emily Dickinson es una de las mejores, sino LA mejor en el campo; así que si resulta que a vos te gusta la poesía, ella es indudablemente una obligación.
El único poema que me gustó es “Fruta Prohibida II”, es muy corto y creo que es picante. O al menos creo que puede ser picante. ¿Es picante? No estoy realmente seguro. Odio la poesía.
Honesta reseña,
Emily D. superior;
poesía sublime,
su prosa la mejor.
Lágrimas de poesía yo detesto,
pongan las páginas en suspenso;
debo abandonar la prueba,
o arrancar mis ojos de su cuenca.
-----------------------------------------------
NOTA PERSONAL :
[1890] [54p] [Poesía] [No Recomendable]
[Lost Thought, Evening e In Vain supongo estuvieron bien]
[Adiós Poesía, te veo en otros veinte años o menos tal vez]
-----------------------------------------------
Every few years the topic arises and I always say the same thing: “I hate poetry”. Nearly two decades later since the last time I read some, I feel it’s time to check if my automated response still holds true. IT DOES. I hate poetry. Half the time I don’t like it, the other half I don’t understand it. And what bothers to no end is that, unlike any other book I read, I cannot attach it to anything at all, a character, a place, a plot, nothing; it just feels so insubstantial!
Still, don’t let my appalling rating discourage you from trying, you can easily realize at first glance Emily Dickinson is one of the best, if not THE best in the field; so if you happen to enjoy poetry, she is undoubtedly a must.
The only poem I did like is “Forbidden Fruit II”, it’s very short and I think it’s spicy. Or at least I think it may be spicy. Is it spicy? I’m not really sure. I hate poetry.
Honest review,
Emily D. excels;
poetry sublime,
her prose the best.
Tears of poetry I loathe,
stop pages come forth;
I must abandon this read,
or pluck out my eyes instead.
-----------------------------------------------
PERSONAL NOTE :
[1890] [54p] [Poetry] [Not Recommendable]
[Lost Thought, Evening and In Vain were ok I guess]
[Goodbye Poetry, see you in another twenty years or less]
-----------------------------------------------
El enigma de la poesía.
Cada tantos años el tema resurge y siempre digo lo mismo: “Odio la poesía”. Casi dos décadas después desde la última vez que leí algo, siento que es la hora de ver si mi respuesta automática sigue siendo cierta: LO ES. Odio la poesía. La mitad del tiempo no me gusta, la otra mitad no la entiendo. Y lo que me molesta en demasía es que, a diferencia de cualquier otro libro que leo, no puedo asociarla a nada en absoluto, un personaje, un lugar, una trama, nada; ¡se siente tan insustancial!
Aun así, no dejes que mi pésimo puntaje te desaliente de probar, es fácil ver a simple vista que Emily Dickinson es una de las mejores, sino LA mejor en el campo; así que si resulta que a vos te gusta la poesía, ella es indudablemente una obligación.
El único poema que me gustó es “Fruta Prohibida II”, es muy corto y creo que es picante. O al menos creo que puede ser picante. ¿Es picante? No estoy realmente seguro. Odio la poesía.
Honesta reseña,
Emily D. superior;
poesía sublime,
su prosa la mejor.
Lágrimas de poesía yo detesto,
pongan las páginas en suspenso;
debo abandonar la prueba,
o arrancar mis ojos de su cuenca.
-----------------------------------------------
NOTA PERSONAL :
[1890] [54p] [Poesía] [No Recomendable]
[Lost Thought, Evening e In Vain supongo estuvieron bien]
[Adiós Poesía, te veo en otros veinte años o menos tal vez]
-----------------------------------------------
May 19, 2017
Emily Dickinson is one of my favourite poets; she is the gothic queen of poetry. At times she strongly reminds me of Edgar Allan Poe. Her poems are less macabre than Poe’s and certainly less fantastical, focusing more on human perception of the darkness and the realities of life, but her work is undoubtedly on par with his in the vein of dark romanticism.
There’s just something exceedingly morose about the way in which she writes. She was terribly depressed for much of her life, and such a pessimistic attitude to life can be seen within her writing. These are the words of a woman completely disillusion with the human experience; there is little light in these poems. Humans are portrayed as weak and self-destructive; they are at times evil and even hellish in nature. All depictions are typically one sided with the darkness conquering any sense of hope. If anything hope is dead within her words. There is only one thing we are striving for in life, and that’s the end according to such thinking.
Death
Read enough of Dickinson’s poetry and you will see how obsessed with death she is; it a recurring theme across her work, one she brings up time and time again. She spent most of her life in solitude so it’s no surprise that she came up with poetry so dark in content; she had a miserable life, and it reflects in the nature of her writing:
"Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality."
The words feel calm and almost serene, as the speaker is accepting of her mortality. She establishes the idea that death is not a choice; it just happens like life just happens. So we should just sit back and enjoy the ride, as she does in Death’s carriage. It passes through the surrounding scenery at a slow pace and observes children playing near wide open fields. This is indicative of the fact that death will come for everyone: there’s no escaping it. The speaker is only half dressed, which suggest that nobody is truly ever ready for death; it comes when it will come never mind how unprepared you are. Death waits for no man.
Death is personified as a gentleman here, one who will escort her to the afterlife. Death, to Dickinson, is not the end; it is the road to immortality: the beginning. Indeed, at the end of the poem she reveals she has actually been dead for centuries (shock-horror!) We’re left with the lingering image of dead horses perpetually pushing her forward into eternity. It’s a wonderful poem, dark and gripping, ethereal and enchanting. Of all of Dickinson’s poetry, this is the one that sticks with me. Years after I first read it, I still hear the opening lines.
She also characterises God as a reckless and almost careless deity. He is not the ideal that many perceive him to be. At the moment of death he fumbles at your soul; you are not elevated or taken to heaven, but “stunned” and “scalped” in the process, then struck like a “thunderbolt.” God has paws which make him sound animalistic and beastlike; he is not kind and forgiving. Death is not the end, but it doesn’t have to be a glamourous experience. Indeed, in another poem the speaker is transfixed by the buzzing of a fly as she lies on her death bed. It’s the last thing she hears; it’s her last experience on earth. In this, it abandons all glorified religious imagery, and almost portrays an ironically realistic moment. She further hints that faith only works for those that are truly devout. If you don’t really believe in it, then calling upon God’s name is pointless. She suggests that those people should look to science for the answers rather than a false bastion they don’t really believe in.
Dickinson is my idea of the perfect poet. She is a religious sceptic, but she is not dismissive of a possible truth in religion. Her poetry dances between opposing ideas and it doesn’t suggest truth in either of them; thus, it is open to interpretation and debate. It can be read in different ways and through this it is profound, powerful and utterly beautiful. I love her unique style, though she’s not one that’s going to leave you feeling uplifted after reading her work that's for sure.
There’s just something exceedingly morose about the way in which she writes. She was terribly depressed for much of her life, and such a pessimistic attitude to life can be seen within her writing. These are the words of a woman completely disillusion with the human experience; there is little light in these poems. Humans are portrayed as weak and self-destructive; they are at times evil and even hellish in nature. All depictions are typically one sided with the darkness conquering any sense of hope. If anything hope is dead within her words. There is only one thing we are striving for in life, and that’s the end according to such thinking.
Death
Read enough of Dickinson’s poetry and you will see how obsessed with death she is; it a recurring theme across her work, one she brings up time and time again. She spent most of her life in solitude so it’s no surprise that she came up with poetry so dark in content; she had a miserable life, and it reflects in the nature of her writing:
"Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality."
The words feel calm and almost serene, as the speaker is accepting of her mortality. She establishes the idea that death is not a choice; it just happens like life just happens. So we should just sit back and enjoy the ride, as she does in Death’s carriage. It passes through the surrounding scenery at a slow pace and observes children playing near wide open fields. This is indicative of the fact that death will come for everyone: there’s no escaping it. The speaker is only half dressed, which suggest that nobody is truly ever ready for death; it comes when it will come never mind how unprepared you are. Death waits for no man.
Death is personified as a gentleman here, one who will escort her to the afterlife. Death, to Dickinson, is not the end; it is the road to immortality: the beginning. Indeed, at the end of the poem she reveals she has actually been dead for centuries (shock-horror!) We’re left with the lingering image of dead horses perpetually pushing her forward into eternity. It’s a wonderful poem, dark and gripping, ethereal and enchanting. Of all of Dickinson’s poetry, this is the one that sticks with me. Years after I first read it, I still hear the opening lines.
She also characterises God as a reckless and almost careless deity. He is not the ideal that many perceive him to be. At the moment of death he fumbles at your soul; you are not elevated or taken to heaven, but “stunned” and “scalped” in the process, then struck like a “thunderbolt.” God has paws which make him sound animalistic and beastlike; he is not kind and forgiving. Death is not the end, but it doesn’t have to be a glamourous experience. Indeed, in another poem the speaker is transfixed by the buzzing of a fly as she lies on her death bed. It’s the last thing she hears; it’s her last experience on earth. In this, it abandons all glorified religious imagery, and almost portrays an ironically realistic moment. She further hints that faith only works for those that are truly devout. If you don’t really believe in it, then calling upon God’s name is pointless. She suggests that those people should look to science for the answers rather than a false bastion they don’t really believe in.
Dickinson is my idea of the perfect poet. She is a religious sceptic, but she is not dismissive of a possible truth in religion. Her poetry dances between opposing ideas and it doesn’t suggest truth in either of them; thus, it is open to interpretation and debate. It can be read in different ways and through this it is profound, powerful and utterly beautiful. I love her unique style, though she’s not one that’s going to leave you feeling uplifted after reading her work that's for sure.
October 29, 2012
1
Because I could not stop for Cops
They kindly Stopped for Me
The Roadblocks covered all three lanes
Perfect Symmetry
2
A narrow Fellow - in the grass
With one eyed – snake – and smile
You may have met him – did you not
The local – paedo – phile
3
I heard a Boy-Band - when I died
The Radio - was on
And rushing so - to switch it Off
And catching - my left Thumb
And dancing round in - Painful Jig
And - tripping on a clod
Such - Banal invitation - to
The Vestibule of God
4
Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in my Bowl
And pecks up all my Cereal
Until it's drowned in milk
5
When the Landlord turned - the drunken Bee
Out of - the Foxglove's door,
They arrested him - for being "twee"
And broke his - fingers four
Because I could not stop for Cops
They kindly Stopped for Me
The Roadblocks covered all three lanes
Perfect Symmetry
2
A narrow Fellow - in the grass
With one eyed – snake – and smile
You may have met him – did you not
The local – paedo – phile
3
I heard a Boy-Band - when I died
The Radio - was on
And rushing so - to switch it Off
And catching - my left Thumb
And dancing round in - Painful Jig
And - tripping on a clod
Such - Banal invitation - to
The Vestibule of God
4
Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in my Bowl
And pecks up all my Cereal
Until it's drowned in milk
5
When the Landlord turned - the drunken Bee
Out of - the Foxglove's door,
They arrested him - for being "twee"
And broke his - fingers four
July 22, 2018
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!
She described my needs with beauty and accuracy. That is all I need. A book. And coffee. And maybe something to eat. But mostly a book.
Last weekend (weekends; the only time I can read like a maniac and write some things), I put on hold all my currently-reading books and dedicated myself to poetry. A GR friend mentioned Dickinson the other day and I remembered reading a couple of poems and a bit about her reclusive, haunted-by-death life. But I didn't know her, at all. Still, I am not sure I know her now. There are so many aspects to consider. If I had to choose one word to describe her, I couldn't; I would need hundreds of them. She contains multitudes, as another poet said. She seems so simple. But there is a beautiful, bittersweet complexity in her quietness.
I found The Complete Poems and, to be honest, I was quite intimidated. So instead, I chose a "Selected Poems" collection. But I will definitely read that first one, entirely, someday. I only read its footnotes related to the poems I read.
There are so many poems that I loved. And so many variations too. I am not going to discuss the fact that some of her poems were rewritten in order to fit the conventional rhyme of her time (atrocious). But I will mention that some of them were written in different ways by the poet herself. For example, this one that is now so close to my heart.
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear of Victory
As he defeated – dying –
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!
That poem was written in 1859. There is another one written in 1862. Although the text is the same, the structure is not. Plus, a dozen of dashes and her weird capitalization. Anyway, the poem is absolutely beautiful. Poignantly beautiful. There is a person who never succeeded, a loser, and Dickinson wisely tells us that he really understands the idea of success. The person who lacks something, clearly wants that something, he longs for it, and is able to get to know it so well because... he cannot touch it. He knows it better that the one who actually possesses it. In this case, success, victory. A poem I truly identify with.
In conclusion, the loser acquired an unpleasant knowledge, one that stayed with him until his death. I remember a line of a song that I never listened to, saying that there is no worse nostalgia than to yearn for what never happened or never existed. An almost never-ending sorrow, a usually identifiable cause and an apparently nonexistent solution. Silver lining? You can't lose what you never had. (Worst “silver lining” ever).
Another one:
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.
A 1890 poem that seems to reflect Dickinson's kind nature. Inspiring verses that are trying to help us find some meaning in our lives. Something that can be found when we help others. I am not sure how helpful you can be while living inside your room and not even talking to people to their faces, but at least she wrote about it...? Her poetry might have been the best and maybe the only way she had to help others.
It is quite a positive poem, considering Death is one of her most recurring themes. Just to name a few: "If I should die", "If I shouldn't be alive", "Death is like the insect", "Because I could not stop for Death" (one of her most well-known poems and the first one I've ever read).
But I am not focusing on that theme. Enough has been said. I found other poems that are now stuck in my head.
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you –Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Dont tell! they'd advertise - you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one's name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
***
Much Madness is divinest Sense –
To a discerning Eye –
Much Sense - the starkest Madness –
'Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail –
Assent – and you are sane –
Demur – you're straightaway dangerous –
And handled with a Chain –
***
I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity. That beckoned it away!
Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.
Dickinson captivated me. She gave me a new perspective on poetry. If I could describe all these feelings her work has created in me, I would feel such a huge relief; I can't, though. So I must borrow some of her words: "If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire ever can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry."
March 2, 2014?
* Also on my blog.
May 1, 2018
"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,"
That used to be the motto in my classroom some years back. We are a community of people populating the planet, and we cannot just look for our own pleasure and gain, we must look after each other as well to find true meaning in life. Emily Dickinson was one of the most quotable poets in Middle School in that respect.
When we talked about the hopelessness of certain situations, we ended up talking about "hope, that thing with feathers". When we talked about human desire, fear and love, we read "Wild Nights, Wild Nights" and talked about the luxury of feeling connections beyond the ordinary.
When we spoke about mainstream opinions and our own perception of reality, we dwelled for hours on my favourite poem in her collection:
"Much Madness is divinest Sense —
To a discerning Eye —
Much Sense — the starkest Madness —
'Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail —
Assent — and you are sane —
Demur — you're straightway dangerous —
And handled with a Chain —"
Assent and you are sane? Demut and be handled with a chain? I believe it is time to put this poem up as a reminder on classroom doors next to the call for compassion and love. Beware of mass opinions. The collective sanity is madness in disguise.
Today I reread the whole Emily Dickinson collection in one sitting - which is a very strange thing to do, you feel inundated with words that are light as feathers and heavy as the world Atlas carried on his shoulders. But closing the book, hope is restored. There are words that soothe, even when they talk of loss:
"I lost a world the other day.
Has anybody found?
You ’ll know it by the row of stars
Around its forehead bound.
A rich man might not notice it;
Yet to my frugal eye
Of more esteem than ducats.
Oh, find it, sir, for me!"
It is between the lines in Emily Dickinson's poems, if you look carefully!
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one Life the Aching,
Or cool one Pain,"
That used to be the motto in my classroom some years back. We are a community of people populating the planet, and we cannot just look for our own pleasure and gain, we must look after each other as well to find true meaning in life. Emily Dickinson was one of the most quotable poets in Middle School in that respect.
When we talked about the hopelessness of certain situations, we ended up talking about "hope, that thing with feathers". When we talked about human desire, fear and love, we read "Wild Nights, Wild Nights" and talked about the luxury of feeling connections beyond the ordinary.
When we spoke about mainstream opinions and our own perception of reality, we dwelled for hours on my favourite poem in her collection:
"Much Madness is divinest Sense —
To a discerning Eye —
Much Sense — the starkest Madness —
'Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail —
Assent — and you are sane —
Demur — you're straightway dangerous —
And handled with a Chain —"
Assent and you are sane? Demut and be handled with a chain? I believe it is time to put this poem up as a reminder on classroom doors next to the call for compassion and love. Beware of mass opinions. The collective sanity is madness in disguise.
Today I reread the whole Emily Dickinson collection in one sitting - which is a very strange thing to do, you feel inundated with words that are light as feathers and heavy as the world Atlas carried on his shoulders. But closing the book, hope is restored. There are words that soothe, even when they talk of loss:
"I lost a world the other day.
Has anybody found?
You ’ll know it by the row of stars
Around its forehead bound.
A rich man might not notice it;
Yet to my frugal eye
Of more esteem than ducats.
Oh, find it, sir, for me!"
It is between the lines in Emily Dickinson's poems, if you look carefully!
November 8, 2017
“A Book”
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may be the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears the human soul!
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may be the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears the human soul!
March 22, 2014
“There is the mosaic, pictogram concentration of ideas into which she codes a volcanic elemental imagination, an apocalyptic vision; there is the tranced suspense and deliberation in her punctuation of dashes, and the riddling, oblique artistic strategies, the Shakespearian texture of the language, solid with metaphor, saturated with homeliest imagery and experience; and everywhere there is the teeming carnival of world-life”
Introduction by Ted Hughes in Selected Poems by Emily Dickinson.
I think of Emily Dickinson as some sort of romantic fantasy enfolded in willingness of eccentricity and desolation. I picture a petite woman always dressed in white with composed features who appears like a vision drawn straight from Dickens’ pages, maybe a new Miss Havisham abandoned at the altar by a lover that never existed but in her imagination, or a recluse in the attic like the deluded Bertha who was kept a secret in Jane Eyre.
Maybe Emily Dickinson was, like some of her contemporaries hinted, "partially cracked" and writing was the only endeavor that could control her psychotic tendencies. “For Occupation – This-", for occupation, writing.
Maybe no other poet has lived so much and so intensely in “A fairer House than Prose”, or secluded in a single room, “They shut me up in Prose-", where she couldn't breathe freely.
So Emily Dickinson chooses to close the door of prose and opens the superior windows of poetry gaining access to an unknown universe where visitors belong to the symbolic world. She is not only visited by biblical personages but also by the ones created by Shakespeare, the most rebellious of romantic poets or by women who nurture her creativity and grant her some genealogy: George Eliot, Elizabeth Barrett Browning or the Brontë Sisters.
Emily’s room becomes her own private ecosystem, which gives wings to her interior world, creating an enigmatic intimacy that is tied in Suffering and met repeatedly with Isolation. “This is my letter to the World That never wrote to Me” shouts out the poetess to the wind. The landscape presented is dense, bleak, excessive and decadent. Her poetry is both sublime and terrifying and explores the asphyxia of domesticity and the abyss of truth bathed in Gothic foreboding and sinister lyricism, faithful reminder of Edgar Allan Poe.
“I like a look of Agony,
Because I know it’s true-" 241
Deprivation and the pain of Absence blossom in verse to give form and matter to Loss, Fear and Death. Pulsating metaphors in disrupted syntax erupt in streams of dashes, which give ambivalent infinity to Emily’s belief to the poetic word being a hollow pearl and significance a mere chimera. If the word is the pearl, the Dickinsonian dash is the thread of silence, of separation, of endless pain that unites her deadly smooth verses in iridescent stanzas.
“There is a pain – so utter –
It swallows substance up -"599
From the depth of emptiness rumbles a voice that agonizes in loneliness and self-imposed resignation, creating an echo that materializes in myriad figures referred as an impenetrable Other, whose presence soaks Dickinson's poems. A masked Lover, the merciless Nature, a cruel God, the bodiless reader, all these “others” blend in perverse multiplicity in a phantasmagorical circus where jugglers play with gender, violence and passion, bonding Fervor with Horror and Death.
“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!” 288
But there is also Love and Hope to be found amidst oppressive darkness. There is warm light emanating from the bulb where the trapped moth can seek refuge after the frosty windowpane. There is Love impregnated with indefinite feelings of loss and impossibility. And muffled Hope for lost souls locked within the Reader.
“Hope is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –(…)
Yet never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of Me.” 254
So We must meet apart –
You there – I here –
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer –
And that White Sustenance –
Despair –“ 640
“Tell all the Truth but tell it slant” advises Emily to the Reader when she turns a Chinese puzzle of mirrors around. If Nature is Emily’s Haunted house and word her Loaded Gun, Art becomes a paradoxical power that twists and bends when iron literality acquires Other meanings, dragging the reader towards a vertiginous edge where one can envision both the interior and the exterior in the fragile border that separates - and unites - the being and the non-being of our existence. Look at Emily's reflection and you will find yourself.
Introduction by Ted Hughes in Selected Poems by Emily Dickinson.
I think of Emily Dickinson as some sort of romantic fantasy enfolded in willingness of eccentricity and desolation. I picture a petite woman always dressed in white with composed features who appears like a vision drawn straight from Dickens’ pages, maybe a new Miss Havisham abandoned at the altar by a lover that never existed but in her imagination, or a recluse in the attic like the deluded Bertha who was kept a secret in Jane Eyre.
Maybe Emily Dickinson was, like some of her contemporaries hinted, "partially cracked" and writing was the only endeavor that could control her psychotic tendencies. “For Occupation – This-", for occupation, writing.
Maybe no other poet has lived so much and so intensely in “A fairer House than Prose”, or secluded in a single room, “They shut me up in Prose-", where she couldn't breathe freely.
So Emily Dickinson chooses to close the door of prose and opens the superior windows of poetry gaining access to an unknown universe where visitors belong to the symbolic world. She is not only visited by biblical personages but also by the ones created by Shakespeare, the most rebellious of romantic poets or by women who nurture her creativity and grant her some genealogy: George Eliot, Elizabeth Barrett Browning or the Brontë Sisters.
Emily’s room becomes her own private ecosystem, which gives wings to her interior world, creating an enigmatic intimacy that is tied in Suffering and met repeatedly with Isolation. “This is my letter to the World That never wrote to Me” shouts out the poetess to the wind. The landscape presented is dense, bleak, excessive and decadent. Her poetry is both sublime and terrifying and explores the asphyxia of domesticity and the abyss of truth bathed in Gothic foreboding and sinister lyricism, faithful reminder of Edgar Allan Poe.
“I like a look of Agony,
Because I know it’s true-" 241
Deprivation and the pain of Absence blossom in verse to give form and matter to Loss, Fear and Death. Pulsating metaphors in disrupted syntax erupt in streams of dashes, which give ambivalent infinity to Emily’s belief to the poetic word being a hollow pearl and significance a mere chimera. If the word is the pearl, the Dickinsonian dash is the thread of silence, of separation, of endless pain that unites her deadly smooth verses in iridescent stanzas.
“There is a pain – so utter –
It swallows substance up -"599
From the depth of emptiness rumbles a voice that agonizes in loneliness and self-imposed resignation, creating an echo that materializes in myriad figures referred as an impenetrable Other, whose presence soaks Dickinson's poems. A masked Lover, the merciless Nature, a cruel God, the bodiless reader, all these “others” blend in perverse multiplicity in a phantasmagorical circus where jugglers play with gender, violence and passion, bonding Fervor with Horror and Death.
“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!” 288
But there is also Love and Hope to be found amidst oppressive darkness. There is warm light emanating from the bulb where the trapped moth can seek refuge after the frosty windowpane. There is Love impregnated with indefinite feelings of loss and impossibility. And muffled Hope for lost souls locked within the Reader.
“Hope is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –(…)
Yet never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of Me.” 254
So We must meet apart –
You there – I here –
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer –
And that White Sustenance –
Despair –“ 640
“Tell all the Truth but tell it slant” advises Emily to the Reader when she turns a Chinese puzzle of mirrors around. If Nature is Emily’s Haunted house and word her Loaded Gun, Art becomes a paradoxical power that twists and bends when iron literality acquires Other meanings, dragging the reader towards a vertiginous edge where one can envision both the interior and the exterior in the fragile border that separates - and unites - the being and the non-being of our existence. Look at Emily's reflection and you will find yourself.
June 23, 2022
"I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love, but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me."
Emily Dickinson
Dickinson has a way of reaching out and grabbing my soul as no other poet can. She has such a show of humanity in each of her poems, and each rings as true for me as the next. My current favorite of her poems from this selected works is "I had no time to hate," which is written above.
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love, but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me."
Emily Dickinson
Dickinson has a way of reaching out and grabbing my soul as no other poet can. She has such a show of humanity in each of her poems, and each rings as true for me as the next. My current favorite of her poems from this selected works is "I had no time to hate," which is written above.
January 21, 2025
First of all, my rating is for the poems themselves and not for this edition. It was very poorly done and I used it primarily as a guide for a group read, while finding the poems otherwise for actually reading. I would urge anyone who wishes to read Dickinson to seek out a much better edition than this one.
Not every poem in this collection is one of Dickinson’s best, but each of them has something important to say to us, if we are open and listen.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul, is among my favorites. The idea of hope as a bird that sings endlessly in the soul and never asks for a crumb in return is so visual and so appealing.
There’s a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.
This put me in mind of this painting by Monet, The Magpie, and the beauty of afternoon light on a snowy but desolate winter’s day.
Marvelous imagery of a beautiful sunset, which could be appreciated at only that level, but there is the deeper meaning of the passage of a life and reaching the other side, with Christ as the shepherd there to lead “the flock away.”
I'll tell you how the Sun rose -
A Ribbon at a time -
The Steeples 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"!
But how he set - I know not -
There seemed a purple stile
That little Yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while -
Till when they reached the other side,
A Dominie in Gray -
Put gently up the evening Bars -
And led the flock away -
What makes her poetry so special is the way she tackles subjects that are familiar to every one of us, regardless of age or station in life. I also believe she has hit upon a basic truth, it takes much more than time to heal a true hurt.
They say that ‘time assuages,’--
Time never did assuage;
An actual suffering strengthens,
As sinews do, with age.
Time is a test of trouble,
But not a remedy,
If such it prove, it prove too
There was no malady.
Another long-time favorite. I have it on a sampler that I bought some forty years ago and have carried with me from home to home.
I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet know I how the heather looks,
And what a wave must be.
I never spoke with God,
Nor visited in heaven;
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the chart were given.
One more from this collection, because I thought of the day after my Mother was gone; the stillness in her room and the hushed buzz of voices in the kitchen.
The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth,--
The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.
I have read Emily Dickinson many times, but one cannot visit these poems too many times. They are as full and rich as many more complex and complicated verses. They are magic for their imagery, which brings to life the mind of this remarkable woman.
Not every poem in this collection is one of Dickinson’s best, but each of them has something important to say to us, if we are open and listen.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul, is among my favorites. The idea of hope as a bird that sings endlessly in the soul and never asks for a crumb in return is so visual and so appealing.
There’s a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.
This put me in mind of this painting by Monet, The Magpie, and the beauty of afternoon light on a snowy but desolate winter’s day.
Marvelous imagery of a beautiful sunset, which could be appreciated at only that level, but there is the deeper meaning of the passage of a life and reaching the other side, with Christ as the shepherd there to lead “the flock away.”
I'll tell you how the Sun rose -
A Ribbon at a time -
The Steeples 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"!
But how he set - I know not -
There seemed a purple stile
That little Yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while -
Till when they reached the other side,
A Dominie in Gray -
Put gently up the evening Bars -
And led the flock away -
What makes her poetry so special is the way she tackles subjects that are familiar to every one of us, regardless of age or station in life. I also believe she has hit upon a basic truth, it takes much more than time to heal a true hurt.
They say that ‘time assuages,’--
Time never did assuage;
An actual suffering strengthens,
As sinews do, with age.
Time is a test of trouble,
But not a remedy,
If such it prove, it prove too
There was no malady.
Another long-time favorite. I have it on a sampler that I bought some forty years ago and have carried with me from home to home.
I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet know I how the heather looks,
And what a wave must be.
I never spoke with God,
Nor visited in heaven;
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the chart were given.
One more from this collection, because I thought of the day after my Mother was gone; the stillness in her room and the hushed buzz of voices in the kitchen.
The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth,--
The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.
I have read Emily Dickinson many times, but one cannot visit these poems too many times. They are as full and rich as many more complex and complicated verses. They are magic for their imagery, which brings to life the mind of this remarkable woman.
March 6, 2018
An appreciation of Emily Dickinson's poetry is greatly improved by a familiarity with the enigma of her personal life. Who was this strange hermit, who produced such an abundance of poems - childlike, with nursery-rhyme cadence; wildly inconsistent - yet earnest and pure, and possessing a preternatural perceptiveness of the ways of the world? For this reason, the unexpected highlight of this edition is the detailed, colourful introduction by James Reeves, which is so good a biography and analysis of Emily Dickinson's life and works, that it competes with the collection it introduces. It is a perfect accompaniment. The introduction is around fifty pages, and the collection around one hundred, and so you may, as I did, alternate between the two, reading two pages of poetry for each page of introduction, and thus become immersed in the life of Emily Dickinson, as you are immersed in her words.
July 2, 2025
She started instapoetry, y'all!
"Sometimes with the Heart
Seldom with the Soul
Scarcer once with the Might
Few - love at all."
(Love it so much. Few words, speaks everything.)
*Romance and tragedy; the broken heart and hope
*Power of words
*Childhood, her sisters
*Life's uncertainties and reality
*Women, gender,
*Some favorite verses:
"Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need."
.
.
.
"As by the dead we love to sit,
Become so wondrous dear -
As for the lost we grapple
Tho' all the rest are here -"
.
.
.
"To such, if they should whisper
Of morning and the moor,
They bear no other errand,
And I, no other prayer."
.
.
.
"Hope" is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -"
.
.
.
"I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -"
.
.
.
"I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you - Nobody - too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell they'd advertise - you know.
How dreary - to be - Somebody!
How public - like a Frog -
To tell one's name - the livelong June -
To an admiring Bog!"
.
.
.
"Your Riches - taught me - Poverty.
Myself - a Millionaire
In little Wealths, as Girls could boast
Till broad as Buenos Ayre -"
.
.
.
These are nothing. My most favourites have been tabbed ☺️
"Sometimes with the Heart
Seldom with the Soul
Scarcer once with the Might
Few - love at all."
(Love it so much. Few words, speaks everything.)
*Romance and tragedy; the broken heart and hope
*Power of words
*Childhood, her sisters
*Life's uncertainties and reality
*Women, gender,
*Some favorite verses:
"Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need."
.
.
.
"As by the dead we love to sit,
Become so wondrous dear -
As for the lost we grapple
Tho' all the rest are here -"
.
.
.
"To such, if they should whisper
Of morning and the moor,
They bear no other errand,
And I, no other prayer."
.
.
.
"Hope" is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -"
.
.
.
"I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -"
.
.
.
"I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you - Nobody - too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell they'd advertise - you know.
How dreary - to be - Somebody!
How public - like a Frog -
To tell one's name - the livelong June -
To an admiring Bog!"
.
.
.
"Your Riches - taught me - Poverty.
Myself - a Millionaire
In little Wealths, as Girls could boast
Till broad as Buenos Ayre -"
.
.
.
These are nothing. My most favourites have been tabbed ☺️
February 1, 2018
EMILY DICKINSON:
Although very little is known about her life, she is still by name alone, one of the most well-known American poets to have ever lived.
All of Ms. Dickinson's poems have the ability to move, provoke and delight any reader; however, these two poems tugged at my heartstrings the most:
The Soul's Storm.
IT struck me every day
The lightning was as new
As if the cloud that instant slit
And let the fire through.
It burned me in the night,
It blistered in my dream;
It sickened, fresh upon my sight
With every morning's beam.
I thought that storm was brief, --
The maddest, quickest by;
But Nature lost the date of this,
And left it in the sky.
Parting.
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
Although very little is known about her life, she is still by name alone, one of the most well-known American poets to have ever lived.
All of Ms. Dickinson's poems have the ability to move, provoke and delight any reader; however, these two poems tugged at my heartstrings the most:
The Soul's Storm.
IT struck me every day
The lightning was as new
As if the cloud that instant slit
And let the fire through.
It burned me in the night,
It blistered in my dream;
It sickened, fresh upon my sight
With every morning's beam.
I thought that storm was brief, --
The maddest, quickest by;
But Nature lost the date of this,
And left it in the sky.
Parting.
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
August 25, 2023
No es de extrañar que Emily Dickinson sea considerada la mejor poeta estadounidense de todos los tiempos. A pesar de que en vida solo llegó a publicar la escasa cifra de seis poemas, Emily fue una escritora prolífica en la sombra hasta que su hermana Lavinia, tras su muerte, encontró y publicó su extensa producción que contaba con cerca de dos mil poemas. Yo había leído varios de ellos pero no ha sido hasta ahora que he podido disfrutar de su totalidad y os puedo asegurar que es imprescindible.
Se conoce que Dickinson hallaba en la escritura una salvación. Sus desordenados escritos a lápiz se encontraron en papeles sueltos, márgenes de libros y periódicos, cualquier pedazo de papel era un buen lugar para crear arte. La gran mayoría carecía de título, ni una fecha que pudiera ayudar a situar u ordenar su obra cronológicamente y en muchas ocasiones mostraba disonancia en sus ideas. Decían de ella que era una poeta descontrolada y que cometía innumerables imperfecciones y elipsis que no se sabían interpretar correctamente.
Leer la recopilación de su poesía completa es conocer un alma compleja, delicada, lúcida y pura. Su arte radica en la introspección, la observación del mundo que la rodeaba y el lirismo con el que ofrecía una visión de la naturaleza. Parte de sus poemas son cíclicos, nos ofrecen el paso del tiempo, de los días, de las estaciones, desde la lejanía de quien no pertenece del todo a ese cuadro y que lo observa desde la otra orilla.
Pero si hay algo que caracterice y prime en sus textos es la particularidad con la que plasmaba la muerte y la inmortalidad del ser. Leyéndola, sientes que Emily convertía a la muerte en una protagonista más de su vida, es un hecho que existía preocupación pero su obra denota que no la temía, la admiraba y la adoraba, ella la sentía y la conocía mucho más que cualquier mortal. Es inevitable sentir emoción ante la lucha que transmite la lectura, una batalla dede pensamientos que finalmente traducía en preciosos versos.
Poesía en estado puro, una delicia para los sentidos y para disfrutar de una sensibilidad que probablemente no volvamos a disfrutar jamás.
Se conoce que Dickinson hallaba en la escritura una salvación. Sus desordenados escritos a lápiz se encontraron en papeles sueltos, márgenes de libros y periódicos, cualquier pedazo de papel era un buen lugar para crear arte. La gran mayoría carecía de título, ni una fecha que pudiera ayudar a situar u ordenar su obra cronológicamente y en muchas ocasiones mostraba disonancia en sus ideas. Decían de ella que era una poeta descontrolada y que cometía innumerables imperfecciones y elipsis que no se sabían interpretar correctamente.
Leer la recopilación de su poesía completa es conocer un alma compleja, delicada, lúcida y pura. Su arte radica en la introspección, la observación del mundo que la rodeaba y el lirismo con el que ofrecía una visión de la naturaleza. Parte de sus poemas son cíclicos, nos ofrecen el paso del tiempo, de los días, de las estaciones, desde la lejanía de quien no pertenece del todo a ese cuadro y que lo observa desde la otra orilla.
Pero si hay algo que caracterice y prime en sus textos es la particularidad con la que plasmaba la muerte y la inmortalidad del ser. Leyéndola, sientes que Emily convertía a la muerte en una protagonista más de su vida, es un hecho que existía preocupación pero su obra denota que no la temía, la admiraba y la adoraba, ella la sentía y la conocía mucho más que cualquier mortal. Es inevitable sentir emoción ante la lucha que transmite la lectura, una batalla dede pensamientos que finalmente traducía en preciosos versos.
Poesía en estado puro, una delicia para los sentidos y para disfrutar de una sensibilidad que probablemente no volvamos a disfrutar jamás.
June 23, 2018
Rating poetry is so damn hard. There, I said it.
Because I'm an English major, I studied Emily Dickinson, but too briefly to my taste, so I decided to buy this small collection of her poetry.
Poetry is so personal, sometimes you like someone's style, sometimes you don't, but other times you can absolutely fall in love with a poem but not the next. That's what happened here.
I still want to read more of her work, there is something to a poetry that keeps me coming back.
3.75
Because I'm an English major, I studied Emily Dickinson, but too briefly to my taste, so I decided to buy this small collection of her poetry.
Poetry is so personal, sometimes you like someone's style, sometimes you don't, but other times you can absolutely fall in love with a poem but not the next. That's what happened here.
I still want to read more of her work, there is something to a poetry that keeps me coming back.
3.75
October 19, 2017
We never know how high we are
till we are called to rise;
//
Because that fearing is so long
Had almost made it dear.
December 2, 2017
This miniature book contains 65 selected poems written by Emily Dickinson between the years 1858 and 1865. Emily, an educated American woman from Amherst, Massachusetts lived an eccentric, reclusive life only anonymously publishing less than a dozen of the 1,175 poems she authored. The body of her work was discovered upon her death.
The themes in this selection feature a deep sense of time, reflections on life, her surroundings, sorrow, spirit, a recurrent pondering of nature, mortality, occasional reference to God and a thereafter, with a pervading undercurrent of proto-existentialism.
Here's a few for your review,
It makes no difference abroad
The seasons--fit--the same--
The Mornings blossom into Noons--
And split their Pods of Flame--
Wild flowers--kindle--in the Woods--
The Brooks slam--all the Day--
No Black bird bates his Banjo--
For passing Calvary--
Auto da Fe--and Judgement--
Are nothing to the Bee--
His separation from His Rose--
To Him--sums Misery--
If all the Souls that stand create--
I have elected--One--
When Sense from Spirit--files away--
And Subterfuge--is done--
When that which is--and that which was--
Apart--intrinsic--stand--
And this brief Drama in the flesh--
Is shifted--like a Sand--
When Figures show their royal Front--
And Mists--are carved away,
Behold the Atom--I preferred--
To all the lists of Clay!
There is no frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry--
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll--
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul.
You cannot put a Fire out--
A Thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a Fan--
Upon the slowest night--
The themes in this selection feature a deep sense of time, reflections on life, her surroundings, sorrow, spirit, a recurrent pondering of nature, mortality, occasional reference to God and a thereafter, with a pervading undercurrent of proto-existentialism.
Here's a few for your review,
It makes no difference abroad
The seasons--fit--the same--
The Mornings blossom into Noons--
And split their Pods of Flame--
Wild flowers--kindle--in the Woods--
The Brooks slam--all the Day--
No Black bird bates his Banjo--
For passing Calvary--
Auto da Fe--and Judgement--
Are nothing to the Bee--
His separation from His Rose--
To Him--sums Misery--
If all the Souls that stand create--
I have elected--One--
When Sense from Spirit--files away--
And Subterfuge--is done--
When that which is--and that which was--
Apart--intrinsic--stand--
And this brief Drama in the flesh--
Is shifted--like a Sand--
When Figures show their royal Front--
And Mists--are carved away,
Behold the Atom--I preferred--
To all the lists of Clay!
There is no frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry--
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll--
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul.
You cannot put a Fire out--
A Thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a Fan--
Upon the slowest night--
September 20, 2020
Amherst’de ki evini görünce dedim; “İyi valla, benim de böyle evim olsa ben de çıkmaz, bir Dickinson olurdum. “ Kendi evime dönünce dedim şiirlerini bir okuyayım. Sonra;
''Yüreğim! Unutacağız onu
Sen ve ben - bu gece!
Sen verdiği sıcaklığı unut-
Işığı unutacağım ben de!''
Satırlarını okuyunca kerametin ev de olmadığını anladım.
''Yüreğim! Unutacağız onu
Sen ve ben - bu gece!
Sen verdiği sıcaklığı unut-
Işığı unutacağım ben de!''
Satırlarını okuyunca kerametin ev de olmadığını anladım.
August 26, 2025
It’s time to revisit this astonishing poet in a slim, succinct selection by Ted Hughes. And really, she is the maverick of rabbit-hole poetry - deceptively beguiling at first look but with hidden undertows of devastating proportions. I really need to spend more time with her.
November 19, 2017
If melancholy, longing and quiet passion are your game, Emily Dickinson is your girl.
September 12, 2023
Difficult to understand without an interpretation book. Her poems can be morbid, funny and the themes of immortality, eternity and death with religious overtones are throughout. They also are original with the layout. Still I enjoyed a few especially’I’m Nobody.
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you-Nobody - Too?
Then there’s a pair of us?
Don’t tell! they’d advertise - you know!
How dreary - to be - Somebody!
How public - like a Frog -
To tell one’s name - the livelong June -
To an admiring Bog!
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you-Nobody - Too?
Then there’s a pair of us?
Don’t tell! they’d advertise - you know!
How dreary - to be - Somebody!
How public - like a Frog -
To tell one’s name - the livelong June -
To an admiring Bog!
December 28, 2024
Meterse en la poesía de Emily Dickinson es como ser invitado a un club exclusivo, pero un poco raro, donde todo es silencio, introspección y frases que te dejan rascándote la cabeza. Dickinson escribe desde su propia burbuja, una casa llena de ventanas (porque siempre están ahí) pero con las cortinas cerradas.
Es cierto, su visión del mundo es tan intensa que a veces te hace sentir que te estás asomando a un abismo emocional. Ella habla de la muerte como quien charla sobre el clima, del amor con un misterio que te deja pensando si alguna vez lo vivió realmente, y de la naturaleza con una devoción que haría sonrojar a un naturalista.
Pero aquí está el truco: no es un libro para leer de golpe, porque te puede saturar. Es como comer bombones muy intensos; después de tres, necesitas parar y respirar. Algunos poemas son tan abstractos que te hacen sentir como si te hubieras perdido en el camino, pero otros te golpean con una verdad tan directa que no sabes si aplaudir o llorar.
Por otro lado, el aire a "esto es para mí, no para el público" puede ser un poco desconcertante. Es como si Emily estuviera escribiendo cartas secretas a un universo que aún no conocemos. En algunos momentos, la conexión entre su mente y tus ojos no se logra del todo.
Lo mejor de Poemas es que te deja con muchas preguntas. ¿Qué pensaba? ¿Cómo vivía? ¿Por qué parecía tan fascinada con la idea de no estar aquí? No es el típico libro que recomendaría a todo el mundo, pero si te gustan los desafíos mentales y las emociones profundas con un toque críptico, este es tu club privado.
Eso sí, ten a mano algo ligero para leer después. Dickinson no te deja indiferente, pero tampoco te da tregua.
Es cierto, su visión del mundo es tan intensa que a veces te hace sentir que te estás asomando a un abismo emocional. Ella habla de la muerte como quien charla sobre el clima, del amor con un misterio que te deja pensando si alguna vez lo vivió realmente, y de la naturaleza con una devoción que haría sonrojar a un naturalista.
Pero aquí está el truco: no es un libro para leer de golpe, porque te puede saturar. Es como comer bombones muy intensos; después de tres, necesitas parar y respirar. Algunos poemas son tan abstractos que te hacen sentir como si te hubieras perdido en el camino, pero otros te golpean con una verdad tan directa que no sabes si aplaudir o llorar.
Por otro lado, el aire a "esto es para mí, no para el público" puede ser un poco desconcertante. Es como si Emily estuviera escribiendo cartas secretas a un universo que aún no conocemos. En algunos momentos, la conexión entre su mente y tus ojos no se logra del todo.
Lo mejor de Poemas es que te deja con muchas preguntas. ¿Qué pensaba? ¿Cómo vivía? ¿Por qué parecía tan fascinada con la idea de no estar aquí? No es el típico libro que recomendaría a todo el mundo, pero si te gustan los desafíos mentales y las emociones profundas con un toque críptico, este es tu club privado.
Eso sí, ten a mano algo ligero para leer después. Dickinson no te deja indiferente, pero tampoco te da tregua.
January 20, 2019
Continuamos a ser aprendizes na leitura dos poemas de Dickinson, primordialmente pela sua autêntica dificuldade. (...) Apenas se irá tornar um desafio cada vez maior à medida que passem os séculos. Como Whitman, ela há de deter-se algures, à nossa espera.
— Harold Bloom
"Não há Fragata como um Livro
Para levar-nos Terra afora
Nem há Corcel como uma Página
De volteante Poesia —
Tal Travessia pode o mais pobre
Sem submissão a Portagem —
Quão frugal é a Caleche
Que leva a alma Humana."
(Juan Gris, The Book)
"Coração! Havemos de o esquecer!
Esta noite — eu e tu!
Tu esquecerás o calor que ele deu —
Eu esquecerei a luz!
Quando acabares, diz-me, por favor,
Para que eu possa logo começar!
Depressa! não vás tu demorar-te
E eu o vá recordar!"
(Mark Rothko, Tentacles of Memory)
"A "Esperança" é a coisa com penas —
Que se empoleira na alma —
E canta melodia sem palavras
E nunca — nunca pára —
E mesmo em vendaval — doce — é ouvida —
E a tempestade seria mais cruel —
Para abater essa pequena Ave
Que a tantos aqueceu —
Ouvi-a pela terra mais gelada —
No mais estranho Mar —
Mas nunca, em Extremidade, me pediu
A Mim — uma migalha."
(George Frederick Watts, Hope)
"Dizem que o «Tempo acalma» —
Nunca o tempo acalmou —
A dor real é que se faz mais tensa
Como os tendões, com a idade —
O Tempo é uma Prova de Tormento —
Mas não o seu Remédio —
E se tal coisa prova, também prova
Que não houve Doença."
(Morteza Katoyzian, Grief)
— Harold Bloom
"Não há Fragata como um Livro
Para levar-nos Terra afora
Nem há Corcel como uma Página
De volteante Poesia —
Tal Travessia pode o mais pobre
Sem submissão a Portagem —
Quão frugal é a Caleche
Que leva a alma Humana."
(Juan Gris, The Book)
"Coração! Havemos de o esquecer!
Esta noite — eu e tu!
Tu esquecerás o calor que ele deu —
Eu esquecerei a luz!
Quando acabares, diz-me, por favor,
Para que eu possa logo começar!
Depressa! não vás tu demorar-te
E eu o vá recordar!"
(Mark Rothko, Tentacles of Memory)
"A "Esperança" é a coisa com penas —
Que se empoleira na alma —
E canta melodia sem palavras
E nunca — nunca pára —
E mesmo em vendaval — doce — é ouvida —
E a tempestade seria mais cruel —
Para abater essa pequena Ave
Que a tantos aqueceu —
Ouvi-a pela terra mais gelada —
No mais estranho Mar —
Mas nunca, em Extremidade, me pediu
A Mim — uma migalha."
(George Frederick Watts, Hope)
"Dizem que o «Tempo acalma» —
Nunca o tempo acalmou —
A dor real é que se faz mais tensa
Como os tendões, com a idade —
O Tempo é uma Prova de Tormento —
Mas não o seu Remédio —
E se tal coisa prova, também prova
Que não houve Doença."
(Morteza Katoyzian, Grief)
August 1, 2021
full review soon
April 5, 2020
2016: I loved this. I love short poems and Emily - we're on a first name basis - is queen of the short form. I adored more than half the poems in this 100 poem collection. I'm pretty sure Emily and I would have gotten along, especially ten years ago when I was a goth and writing poetry every day!
2020: I love the themes Dickinson explores, including nature, death, grief and thought. I also love the short length of the poems and their fairly simple language. It gives me just enough to casually analyze.
2020: I love the themes Dickinson explores, including nature, death, grief and thought. I also love the short length of the poems and their fairly simple language. It gives me just enough to casually analyze.
September 10, 2020
ابدیت، تصور آن لحظه است
که من دریابم
تو که عین هستی بودی
فراموش کردی زندگی کنی
پس اینکه «زندگی همین است»
حرفیست که من معنایش را هرگز ندانستم
همانطور که بهشت چیزی خیالی بود
تا آن دم که به قلمرو تو رسیدم.
اینکه «زندگی، بودن است»،
برای من آدرسی زیادی سر راست است
مگر اینکه در چهره نجاتدهندهام تو را بازیابم
کسی که به جاودانگی شک کند
چه بسا مرا با چیزی جز او عوض کند
مرا که خلاصهییام از چهره پردهپوش تو
از بهشت و دوزخ به چنگ میآورم
حق عقوبت را
به کسی که این چهره را
در ازای چیز کمبهاتری از دست میدهد
اگر «خدا عشق است» چنانکه میگوید
ما آن را باور میکنیم
زیرا به یقین میگوید
او خدای حسود است
اگر از دستش هرکاری برمیآید
چنانکه در عینحال بخشایشگر است
سرانجام به ما باز میگرداند
خدایان مصادره شدهمان را
که من دریابم
تو که عین هستی بودی
فراموش کردی زندگی کنی
پس اینکه «زندگی همین است»
حرفیست که من معنایش را هرگز ندانستم
همانطور که بهشت چیزی خیالی بود
تا آن دم که به قلمرو تو رسیدم.
اینکه «زندگی، بودن است»،
برای من آدرسی زیادی سر راست است
مگر اینکه در چهره نجاتدهندهام تو را بازیابم
کسی که به جاودانگی شک کند
چه بسا مرا با چیزی جز او عوض کند
مرا که خلاصهییام از چهره پردهپوش تو
از بهشت و دوزخ به چنگ میآورم
حق عقوبت را
به کسی که این چهره را
در ازای چیز کمبهاتری از دست میدهد
اگر «خدا عشق است» چنانکه میگوید
ما آن را باور میکنیم
زیرا به یقین میگوید
او خدای حسود است
اگر از دستش هرکاری برمیآید
چنانکه در عینحال بخشایشگر است
سرانجام به ما باز میگرداند
خدایان مصادره شدهمان را
July 13, 2024
1696
[There is a solitude of space]
Ka një vetmi t'vetën hapësira
Dhe deti ka vetmi
Vetmi dhe vdekja ka, e pra
Këto janë kulupí
Përqasur atij të thelli vis
Polares fshehtësi
Një shpirti në prani të vet -
[There is a solitude of space]
Ka një vetmi t'vetën hapësira
Dhe deti ka vetmi
Vetmi dhe vdekja ka, e pra
Këto janë kulupí
Përqasur atij të thelli vis
Polares fshehtësi
Një shpirti në prani të vet -
February 26, 2023
What? A review for this? Are you out of your mind?????
May 30, 2024
4.5
“ I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one's name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog! “
“ My story has a moral:
I have a missing friend,—
Pleiad its name, and robin, And guinea in the sand,— And when this mournful ditty, Accompanied with tear,
Shall meet the eye of traitor
In country far from here,
Grant that repentance solemn May seize upon his mind, And he no consolation
Beneath the sun may find.”
“ HEAVEN Is what I cannot reach!
The apple on the tree,
Provided it do hopeless hang, That "heaven" is, to me.
The color on the cruising cloud,
The interdicted ground
Behind the hill, the house behind,—
There Paradise is found! “
“ ……… So we must keep apart, You there, I here,
With just the door ajar
That oceans are, And prayer,
And that pale sustenance, Despair! “
It is my first time reading for Emily Dickinson, and I can say that I fell in love with the way she writes.
“ I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one's name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog! “
“ My story has a moral:
I have a missing friend,—
Pleiad its name, and robin, And guinea in the sand,— And when this mournful ditty, Accompanied with tear,
Shall meet the eye of traitor
In country far from here,
Grant that repentance solemn May seize upon his mind, And he no consolation
Beneath the sun may find.”
“ HEAVEN Is what I cannot reach!
The apple on the tree,
Provided it do hopeless hang, That "heaven" is, to me.
The color on the cruising cloud,
The interdicted ground
Behind the hill, the house behind,—
There Paradise is found! “
“ ……… So we must keep apart, You there, I here,
With just the door ajar
That oceans are, And prayer,
And that pale sustenance, Despair! “
It is my first time reading for Emily Dickinson, and I can say that I fell in love with the way she writes.
November 24, 2020
It dropped so low in my regard
I heard it hit the ground,
And go to pieces on the stones
At bottom of my mind
Consider me dazzled, kept. I am content. It is a very slow holiday week and dread may be lifting. Democracy might still matter and there are vaccines on the horizons. My copy is handsome, a delight to hold. Into such I burrowed (and did so bold).
There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears a Human soul.
We revere our gratitude later in the week in this country. It is a tradition. We also celebrate what might pass for gluttony to demonstrate our celestial favor. As to these poems I am likewise guilty. I crammed them into my maw and reread with abandon. Does the natural world experience relish? There might be a philosophical discord in imagining how the feral savor? I don't believe the appellation is necessarily exclusive. The blithe reader will find much to contemplate here, despite the avian and apiarian excess.
I heard it hit the ground,
And go to pieces on the stones
At bottom of my mind
Consider me dazzled, kept. I am content. It is a very slow holiday week and dread may be lifting. Democracy might still matter and there are vaccines on the horizons. My copy is handsome, a delight to hold. Into such I burrowed (and did so bold).
There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears a Human soul.
We revere our gratitude later in the week in this country. It is a tradition. We also celebrate what might pass for gluttony to demonstrate our celestial favor. As to these poems I am likewise guilty. I crammed them into my maw and reread with abandon. Does the natural world experience relish? There might be a philosophical discord in imagining how the feral savor? I don't believe the appellation is necessarily exclusive. The blithe reader will find much to contemplate here, despite the avian and apiarian excess.
January 4, 2020
I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.
He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth,--the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.
And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms.
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
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