Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10,
1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet. Born in Amherst,
Massachusetts, 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. Considered 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.
While Dickinson was a prolific private
poet, fewer than a dozen of her nearly 1800 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, Dickinson'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 scholar Thomas H. Johnson published The Poems of
Emily Dickinson. Despite some unfavorable reviews and some skepticism
during the late 19th and early 20th century about Dickinson's
literary prowess, Dickinson is now almost universally considered to
be one of the most important American poets. (Wikipedia)
Image from
swc2.hccs.cc.tx.us
"I
felt a Funeral, in my Brain"
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 –
Image from CBS19.TV
"After
great pain, a formal feeling comes"
After great pain, a
formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit
ceremonious, like Tombs –
The stiff Heart
questions ‘was it He, that bore,’
And ‘Yesterday,
or Centuries before’?
The Feet,
mechanical, go round –
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air,
or Ought –
Regardless grown,
A Quartz
contentment, like a stone –
This is the Hour of
Lead –
Remembered, if
outlived,
As Freezing
persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill –
then Stupor – then the letting go –
Image
from AdeleKenny.Blogspot.Com
"I
heard a Fly buzz"
I heard a Fly buzz
– when I died –
The Stillness in
the Room
Was like the
Stillness in the Air –
Between the Heaves
of Storm –
The Eyes around –
had wrung them dry –
And Breaths were
gathering firm
For that last Onset
– when the King
Be witnessed – in
the Room –
I willed my
Keepsakes – Signed away
What portions of me
be
Assignable – and
then it was
There interposed a
Fly –
With Blue –
uncertain stumbling Buzz –
Between the light –
and me –
And then the
Windows failed – and then
I could not see to
see –
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