I had originally planned to name this blog Letters to Emily. It is a reference to my favourite Emily Dickinson poem, and a name I like to use every now and then. It was my myspace, a still un-made zine, and now a category in this blog. I figure, why not write a poem of hers here every now and then for enjoyment, or discussion, or ignore it if you like.
Emily Dickinson has that Chris McCandless sort of pull on me. Like maybe this world was just wrong, and she knew it like he knew it and I know it, only I let it hold me back. They didn’t.
I dreaded that first robin so,
But he is mastered now,
And I’m accustomed to him grown, –
He hurts a little, though.
I thought if I could only live
Till that first shout got by,
Not all pianos in the woods
Had power to mangle me.
I dared not meet the daffodils,
For fear their yellow gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own.
I wishes the grass would hurry,
So when ’twas time to see,
He’d be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch to look at me.
I could not bear the bees should come,
I wished they’d stay away
In those dim countries where they go:
What word had they for me?
They’re here, though; not a creature failed,
No blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me,
The Queen of Calvary.
Each one salutes me as he goes,
And I my childish plumes
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgement
Of their unthinking drums.