Emily Dickinson The Less is More Poet

July 2, 2010
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As I continued to read poems over time, I found frequent matches between thought or feeling and dead-on descriptiveness in poems by Emily Dickinson. Often enough, as it turned out, to keep me from becoming discouraged by poems that were hard. As in - impenetrable! Intriguing by rhythm or phrase, but that I couldn't understand. Whether by the poet's spirit or my own stubbornness, I cannot say. I was compelled to keep reading. Then, I'd have one of those Ah!Ha!! moments. The meaning, or, at least a meaning, would become plain. These "interactions" with poems continue to be part of my Emily Dickinson life.

After that class I would returned again and again to read more Dickinson poems. Family and friends got accustomed to hearing a poem in the middle of a conversation. When something we can't find the words to express causes me to think of a Dickinson line, often the poet contributes clarity.

There's nothing to put the skids on an argument like allowing a Dickinson rhythmic thought into the conversation. Words embedded in my psyche by a woman who lived over a hundred years ago have become second nature as I listen and test the world through ideas and beliefs I have learned in the poems.

Like a friend often says, "Once Emily Dickinson gets hold of you, she never lets go!" And, so it is!

photo courtesy photobucket/RoShute

Because I could not stop for Death -
He kindly stopped for me -
The Carriage held but just Ourselves -
And Immortality.

We slowly drove - he knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility-

We passed the School, where Children strove
At recess - in the Ring -
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain -
We passed the Setting Sun -

Or rather - He passed Us -
The dews drew quivering and Chill
For only Gossamer, my Gown
My Tippet - only Tulle -

We paused before a House that seemed
A swelling of the Ground -
The Roof was scarcely visible -
The Cornice in the Ground.

Since then - 'tis Centuries - and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity -

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 --

Masonic German...
Wine Cellar is available at Allposters.com

The best poet ever. Many high-ranking scholars, researchers and I agree.

Born December 10, 1830 in Amherst, Massachusetts to Edward, a lawyer, all-round active citizen and politician, and Emily Norcross, a homemaker who recommended once that her daughter take what the poet termed, "the botanical cure" for a behavioral infraction: "Turn over a new leaf."

The 56-year-old lifelong resident of Amherst died in 1886 at her home, 280 Main Street, after penning 1,789 poems.

In 2003, the Dickinson "homestead," where Emily was born and died, became an official historic museum when it was combined with the Evergreens, the estate belonging to poet's brother and sister-in-law, on an adjoining property. Amherst College owns the Museum and through a governing board and a committee, administers the operations.

The museum is open except Mondays for tours. Here's a link for tour schedules and other activities sponsored by the Emily Dickinson Museum.

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 etherial 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 -

When Winds hold Forests in their Paws -
The Universe - still -

By Emily Dickinson
(photo courtesy creativecommons.org)