Emily Dickinson: Remorse is memory awake
Remorse is cureless,—the disease
Not even God can heal
Emily Dickinson: Cocoon above! Cocoon below!
A moment to interrogate,
Then wiser than a “Surrogate,”
The Universe to know!
Emily Dickinson: How happy is the little stone
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity—
Emily Dickinson: I had been hungry, all the Years
The Plenty hurt me – ’twas so new –
Myself felt ill – and odd –
As Berry – of a Mountain Bush –
Transplanted – to a Road
Rachel Hadas: Holding on to hope is hard, even with the pandemic’s end in sight – wisdom from poets through the ages
As we begin to glimpse what might be the beginning of the end of the pandemic, what does hope mean? It’s hard not to sense the presence of hope, but how do we think of it?
Gary Margolis: The Desire to Write Poetry at Forty
the mysterious
feeling between her
and Emily, the centuries in
between two women
alone in their rooms.
Emily Dickinson: They shut me up in Prose
They might as wise have lodged a Bird
For Treason — in the Pound —
Emily Dickinson: I have no life but this
I have no Life but this —
To lead it here —
Emily Dickinson: The Soul selects her own Society
The Soul selects her own Society —
Then — shuts the Door —
Sandy Solomon: Ghazal
A night of ghazals comes to an end to fill with birds.
As the sky blues, their calls braid in New Jersey.
Emily Dickinson: She dealt her pretty words like Blades
She dealt her pretty words like Blades–
How glittering they shone—
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone—
Matthew Redmond: Emily Dickinson is the unlikely hero of our time
As the world continues to endure the ravages of COVID-19, another ghost of Dickinson steps into view.
Emily Dickinson: For each ecstatic instant
For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
Robert Wrigley: The Consciousness of Everything
That time’s lost now, when a stone could hurt,
when a feather missed its wing,
when sky kissed clouds and grass kissed dirt
and nothing thought itself just a thing.
