| Title | : | Selected Poems |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 0517206064 |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780517206065 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Hardcover |
| Number of Pages | : | 256 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1890 |
Selected Poems Reviews
-
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]
----------------------------------------------- -
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. -
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 -
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. -
That Love is all there is,
Is all we know of Love;
It is enough, the freight should be
Proportioned to the groove
Deep, meaningful and thought provoking! - every line from this collection is worth reading more than once. This book can be titled 'The best of Emily Dickinson'. Each word, clearly, came from the heart.
Emily Dickinson is, for all the right reasons, considered to be one of the greatest and most original poets of all time.
How happy is the little Stone
That rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn't care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears -
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity -And Awe - was all we could feel
-
"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! -
“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 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. -
"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. -
Selected poems, Emily Dickinson
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: بیست و هفتم ماه جولای سال 2010 میلادی
عنوان: رویش خاموش گدازه ها: شعرهای امیلی دیکنسون؛ مترجم: محمدرحیم اخوت؛ حمید فرازنده؛ مشخصات نشر: تهران، آگاه، 1388، در 178 و 102 ص، شابک: 9789644162947؛ فارسی انگلیسی؛ از شعرهای برگزیده امیلی دیکنسون - قرن 19 م
ا. شربیانی -
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.
-
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 ☺️ -
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. -
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.
-
We never know how high we are
till we are called to rise;
//
Because that fearing is so long
Had almost made it dear. -
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-- -
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. -
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 -
If melancholy, longing and quiet passion are your game, Emily Dickinson is your girl.
-
One need not be a Chamber - to be Haunted
One need not be a House -
The Brain has Corridors - surpassing
Material Place - -
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) -
full review soon -
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. -
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 -
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. -
Read the
Complete Poems instead. This book, along with many other collections of Dickinson's poetry, followed the convention set by the early editors, Mabel Loomis Todd and Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1891), who took it upon themselves to edit Dickinson's poems to their own liking. The most famous example is probably the poem "I'm Nobody! Who are you?" (incipit), which properly reads as follows:I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Whereas Todd's and Higginson's edited version reads as follows:
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!I'm nobody! Who are you?
I trust that the differences are obvious.
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 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. -
4.25
-
I liked these poems quite a bit, but they didn't affect me as deeply as those of
Edgar Allan Poe or
Oscar Wilde. I must prefer my poetry dark and brooding? I don't know, because I'm still new to it. These are mostly hopeful or joyful. Some may lean towards being nostalgic or wistful but they never reached the point of being moody or somber, even one of my favorites called "Griefs" about grief. Another favorite was "Returning" which was nostalgic, about returning home, but it still didn't have that burning, it was more playful.
I had a beef with this Kindle edition because it used titles for some poems and not others (from my understanding, none had titles originally). It made some of the poems confusing. There was a little squiggly line sometimes but some seemed to still be part of the poem before it while others didn't. I checked the first line index in the back for some I thought didn't fit and their first lines were in the index so I believe they were separate poems, but they weren't separated in the index. I don't know enough about poetry or her poetry to really know. In any event, they were separate poems to me. Of this type, my favorites include:
If I can stop one heart from breaking;
They say that 'time assuages';
I'm nobody! Who are you?;
This is my letter to the world;
I had no time to hate because;
Delight becomes pictorial; and
I never saw a moor.
Some of my other favorites not previously mentioned:
Compensation - For each ecstatic instant;
The Lost Jewel - I held a jewel in my fingers;
Hope - Hope is the thing with feathers;
The Wind's Visit - The wind tapped like a tired man;
The Chariot - Because I could not stop for Death ;
Experience - I stepped from plank to plank; and
A Book - There is no frigate like a book
With that many favorites. I better make it 4.5 stars. -
Şiir okumayı özlediğinizi hissettirecek bir eser.
