Emily Dickinson
Reviews
This was the first poetry book I picked and it's going to be with me because everytime I go to this book I am going to connect with Emily Dickinson on something new.
Happy pride month to Emily and Sue<3
This is an absolutely lovely set of poetry. I would definitely recommend picking up this book if you are interested in reading works by Emily Dickinson. It was an absolute pleasure to sit down and finally read some work by this literary great! Poetry bundles are honestly one of the greatest achievements in literature. They are the type of anthologies we truly need! I'm glad someone decided to put this book together. It was a personal goal to just read something by Emily Dickinson. Sometimes I just want to sit down and read a classic without any strings attached. I'd highly recommend her work if you're interested in poetry. Five out of five stars. What a lovely collection!
Favorites:
- "I Like A Look Of Agony"
- "I Can Wade Grief"
- "A Solemn Thing - It Was - I Said"
- "I Felt A Funeral In My Brain"
- "Before I Got My Eye Put Out"
- "Much Madness Is Divinest Sense"
- "She Dealt Her Pretty Words Like Blades"
- "It Was Not Death For I Stood Up"
- "The Heart Asks Pleasure First"
- "Pain Has An Element Of Blank"
- "Her Losses Make Our Gains Ashamed"
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. Then, as horizons step, Or noons report away, Without the formula of sound, It passes, and we stay: A quality of loss Affecting our content, As trade had suddenly encroached Upon a sacrament.
This collection was a great introduction to Emily Dickinson's poetry - but I think it was just that, an introduction. While there are certainly some gems within this edition, I found myself uninterested in her poems about nature, which take up a significant part of this book. In time, I could definitely be persuaded to buy a complete collection of Dickinson's poetry to indulge in on a warm spring day.
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! So proud she was to die It made us all ashamed That what we cherished, so unknown To her desire seemed. So satisfied to go Where none of us should be, Immediately, that anguish stooped Almost to jealousy.
4.5 ⭐️🤍🤍
Love her. Get your brother's wife
3.5 stars I do think I liked the first half of this book a lot more than the second half. (Even though it's all poetry...so wtf am I saying?). The point is: I think I fell out of love reading this. I do enjoy poetry, I have read many different types of poetry, and Emily has always been in the top 5 of my list. However, I read MiraBai's poetry halfway through reading this and I ended up not enjoying the rest of this as much. Mostly because I am used to this type of poetry and reading a different author from a completely different part of the world with different belief really caught my attention. Meanwhile, though Emily's poems were as good as before, I kinda just think that when I revisit it, I will enjoy it more.
4.5 Very beautiful and striking poetry. There were a lot of poems that left me with my mouth hanging open; they hit deep. The language and sing-song style was very nice. This is my first book of poetry that I have read cover to cover. It makes me want to read more poetry in general and more Emily Dickinson.
Of course reading poetry isn't meant to be read like a novel so I didn't read all of them, just a bunch of my favorites and some that I wanted to back to. I was reminded why I love Dickinson's style this second time around.
A review from my old blog... I'm not much of a poetry fam. Sure, good poetry appeals to me and I appreciate good imagery. Dickinson is very good poet. Unfortunately, 1800 poems all read in succession (not at one time of course) can be a bit overwhelming for the casual poetry reader. If you like poetry then this is the book for you. If not then...
I love this queen of poetry, the strange introverted woman who wore exclusively white clothes and wrote poetry about death and immortality. Her gothic vibes, the beauty of her words... I truly fell in love with her couple of years ago and this was my third reread of her works. Some of the selected poems were different than the ones I’ve read in different editions and translations of her works, so I discovered some new favorite poems by her. I feel like we’d definitely go along if we could know each other. I love her poetry so much!
I keep trying with poetry, and keep struggling. I can handle bite sized chunks, but a whole book is a lot, took a couple months to finish. There are some beautiful poems within.
Highlights
If I should die, you should live
aaaahggAADFghhhhh
In this short Life
That only lasts an hour
How much — how little — is
Within our power
Her Losses make our Gains ashamed -
She bore Life's empty Pack
As gallantly as if the East
Were swinging at her Back.
Life's empty Pack is heaviest,
As every Porter knows -
In vain to punish Honey -
It only sweeter grows.
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.
The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering;
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.
It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl,
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.
And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,
As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And I was like midnight, some,
When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all aroundOr grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.
But most like chaos,-- stopless, cool,
Without a chance or spar,--
Or even a report of land
To justify despair.
She dealt her pretty words like Blades—
How glittering they shone—
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone—
She never deemed— she hurt—
That— is not Steel's Affair—
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh—
How ill the Creatures bear—
To Ache is human— not polite—
The Film upon the eye
Mortality's old Custom—
Just locking up— to Die.
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—
I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.
And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.
And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead, again.
Then space began to toll
As all the heavens were a bell,
And Being but an ear,
And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.
I pondered how the bliss would look—
And would it feel as big—
When I could take it in my hand—
As hovering— seen— through fog—
And then— the size of this "small" life—
The Sages— call it small—
Swelled— like Horizons— in my vest—
And I sneered— softly—" small"!
I can wade Grief–
Whole Pools of it–
I’m used to that–
But the least push of Joy
Breaks up my feet–
And I tip— drunken–
Let no Pebble— smile–
‘Twas the New Liquor–
That was all!
Power is only Pain–
Stranded, thro’ Discipline,
Till Weights— will hang–
Give Balm— to Giants–
And they’ll wilt, like Men–
Give Himmaleh–
They’ll Carry— Him!
I like a look of Agony,
Because I know it's true—
Men do not sham Convulsion,
Nor simulate, a Throe—
The Eyes glaze once— and that is Death—
Impossible to feign
The Beads upon the Forehead
By homely Anguish strung.
Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.
I shall know why - when Time is over --
And I have ceased to wonder why --
Success is counted sweetest By those who ne'er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need.
Water, is taught by thirst.
Land — by the Ocean passed.
Transport — by throe —
Peace — by it's battles told —
Love, by Memorial Mold —
Birds, by the Snow.
It is that thing that you would never recognize peace if you didn't meet the war.
Will there be a "Morning"?
Is there such a thing as "Day"?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?
Did you ever think that time is just a concept in space and in reality we are just living a single thing since we were born? We do not have days, weeks, or years. This is an illusion and time is a heaviness of it is own.
It's all I have to bring today —
This, and my heart beside —
This, and my heart, and all the fields —
And all the meadows wide —
I do think there's a certain type of romanticism in thinking that all that you could give to someone is your heart and the place there you're right now.