Emily Dickinson
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"Sadness" is the thing with thorns -
That pricks into the soul -
And gives the hug without the arms -
And never leaves the Noll -
Oh, how the clock keeps on ticking,
Screaming death all the time.
Death claims all as fast as life gives,
And we long for more time.
Death is closer each day we waste.
I no longer fear death,
Blank lines-
tell the most...
Empty vases-
tell of vanished flowers- and...
Empty rings-
tell of vanished lovers.
The thing with feathers
Perching in the soul
It peeks Outside
Outside glares back
Somehow
The meaning of “hate”
A mystery, the meaning of “fear”
Solved long ago.
Open the rarified book and step into the fantasy of phrase.
Here I have learned the touch of a thousand, thousand apples,
The twists and turns of eloquent power to show the toil and trouble of kings,
Open the rarified book and step into the fantasy of phrase.
Here I have learned the touch of a thousand, thousand apples,
The twists and turns of eloquent power to show the toil and trouble of kings,
Dear Emily Dickinson,
Reading your poetry has inspired me to write some of my own. In particular, I've noticed your proclivity for using a certain punctuation mark in your work. Please enjoy:
More Dashes
Left and right, front and back people
Stand there. Inching closer to the doors that
Slide. All for
Saving their legs. The ding
Sounds a high pictched tone. A
Sudden jolt forward, everyone ushers
Emily
She could not stop for Death
Neither could I
She could not let go
Neither could I
She tought me "be who I be"
I will be me
She told me "see what I see"
I see
I hear the Bells ringing, ringing. Menacing, treacherous- silence. Pain is imminent-But I think Differently. I was a beggar for your Release- But not twice- For you are not worthy ofMy sacred Pain.
To Whom It May Concern- The bed is wrapped near the River, Let my memories enter the Shore.Nevermore, I never felt, As if it mattered- Hesitation marks fill the Paper,I could not bear to write it-“I love you, I love you”. Past words are dead.
Twas never a Sight such as this -
Orange - Autismal Veils -
A Royalty and Wanderer -
Falls, but does it Fail?
The Viceroy does but not Contend
Mimic all but the Name -
Subordinate Species is but
If you let me, I'd like to clutch your forty-five pearlsA flawed, blinding foreignnessAnd if it's possible---the descendant of Emily DickinsonBut have you really locked yourself away?
Dear sweet and putrid Flower
I find myself riveted by your solitude.
And there is no better method for passing the day
In this jail-cell we call freedom
“Reality” is the thing with a sharp edge
That cuts like that of a knife
And stings the skin without the blood
And leaves –an invisible scar-
And most biting – in the cold – is felt
The words flow from my heart
And into my revolving conscious
Where at the jot of a pen they part,
And with revision, I am cautious.
Poetry is me,
And I am poetry.
I don’t want to do life today
So I think I’ll just lie here
I’ll be a Neo-Nietzsche
Since life won’t do me either
What good is a body
That only sees despair
It’s not white or phallic
If hope is the thing with wingsSoaring higher and higher into an expanse-less skyFlying far beyond the horizon's edgeI would that I had flamesTo scorch these wings
(poems go here) Laying on your chest,
Playing in your hair.
With you I am at my best.
But I would never dare speak—I would never dare say,
The three words that keep—Reoccurring in my head.
Finely cut grass
Scours the Land—
Free from the Pounding—
Rain, Snow— Flesh of the Sun
Voices—Roaring from a distance
Echoed shrills within—
Blurred by the Vehemence—
The Past, Present, Future
That never wrote to me that i would have loved
with tender majesty
The doors are closed
But happiness still await
For love of you
sits…and…sits
Until it Withers away
