Emily Dickinson: Dear March – Come In

  Dear March — Come in — How glad I am — I hoped for you before — Put down your Hat — You must have walked — How out of Breath you are — Dear March, Come right up the stairs with me — I have so much to tell — I got your … Continue reading Emily Dickinson: Dear March – Come In

Emily Dickinson: “A Light Exists in Spring” and Some Words About the Poet

A light exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period. When March is scarcely here A color stands abroad On solitary hills That science cannot overtake, But human nature feels. It waits upon the lawn; It shows the furthest tree Upon the furthest slope we know; It almost speaks to me. … Continue reading Emily Dickinson: “A Light Exists in Spring” and Some Words About the Poet

The Soul Selects

For Maryellen ~ The Soul selects her own Society — Then — shuts the Door — To her divine Majority — Present no more — Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing — At her low Gate — Unmoved — an Emperor be kneeling Upon her Mat — I've known her — from an … Continue reading The Soul Selects

#ROW80 9/7 & September

After yesterday waiting for the plumber, plus today waiting for the doctor, plus anticipation of tomorrow again waiting for the plumber, I have run out of steam. I therefore turn the blog over to the greatest American poet. *  *  *  *  * September's Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets—Crows—and Retrospects And a dissembling Breeze … Continue reading #ROW80 9/7 & September

ROW80 7/10, Short-shorts, and Emily Dickinson’s Ribs

It's no longer Sunday where I am, so my report for A Round of Words in 80 Days is now late. On the other hand, it's Sunday somewhere, so no sweat. I have plenty of time. (Twenty years ago I wouldn't have written no sweat in anything but a letter to my nearest and dearest. … Continue reading ROW80 7/10, Short-shorts, and Emily Dickinson’s Ribs

Day 26: Emily, tippling

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, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue. When landlords turn the drunken bee Out of the foxglove's door, When butterflies renounce … Continue reading Day 26: Emily, tippling