like me, youve 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 Emilys life.
The show isnt 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 famea theme I seem to be addicted to in my own work as well, Emily Dickinson's poetry is stunningly existential and her story is equally fascinating, Such a great collection to dip in and out of, and noone writes a striking opening line quite like her, 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!ltbgt
Or this one,
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown
“The berrys cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown,
Lest I should be oldfashioned,
Ill put a trinket on, ltbgt
Immeasurable and prolific Emily Dickinson wrote nearly,poems, Upon reading this complete collection it is remarkable the sheer amount of beautiful opening lines, certainly more than any other poet that Ive read, Dickinsons poems are typically very short and heavily metaphorical,
Dickinsons 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, 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,
. Unreturning
. The Brain within its Groove
, A Service of Song
, A Day
. Autumn
. Im nobody, who are you
, In the Garden
. November
. I felt a funeral in my brain
, Dead
. Charlotte Brontes Grave
. Nobody Knows this Little Rose
, I fear a man of frugal speech
, I never saw a moor
, Dear March, Come In
, Tis easier to pity those when dead
,stars. " 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.
" Introduction
Poems
Acknowledgments
Previous Collections
Subject Index
Index of First Lines Emily Dickinson's poems convinced me, at an early age ofor, 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 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, " I will be returning to Dickinson's poetry frequently, "my perennial nest" Благодарение на великолепните sitelink“Фигури” на Мария Попова, тази на Емили Дикинсън найпосле 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 найвърховен смисъл
за поглед, който различава.
Много смисъл е найчистото 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
подобре побегни
че и неговата ръждясала пушка
понякога гърми,
Плачът в 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.
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 whitedress wearing spinster recluse who may or may not have had samesex 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.
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 youNobodyToo
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.
Thats a promise!
The soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend,
Or the most agonizing spy
An enemy could send ,
Find Hope Is The Thing With Feathers: The Complete Poems Of Emily Dickinson Published By Emily Dickinson Available As Publication
Emily Dickinson