The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson | Date: 14 April 2011, 02:44
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Emily Dickinson's expressional language of yesteryear is still the je ne sais quoi of today. The genius that comes forth from her consciousness seems rather simplistic at first, but when you truly contemplate her writing style true enlightenment develops in what I'd refer to as the dimensions of humanity. These dimensions consist of the soul (psyche,) the spirit (nous,) and the body (soma).
I don't think there is anyone who could read Dickinson's poems and not have these dimensions of the self-affected.
A case in point: one of her poems goes like this.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And Sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
This is one of her most recited poems to date. I sometimes wonder how most people would interpret it?
How I ascertain it is in this contexts. I believe it's about a bird that with a little help will be able to withstand the evening chill.
On it's own, it wants to persevere no matter what the odds, but the pangs of the world rest upon its shoulders.
The bottom line is that the bird needs support.
This bird is the mother of baby chicks who are in disparate need of nurturing, and protection simply because the dead of night is creating trepidations in their souls.
For you see, without trust there is no hope. That is why hope is a thing with feathers because the bird represents a better tomorrow. A tomorrow that will come someday. It will be a day when we can all freely trust one another. And that my friends is the definition of true freedom.
The bird also is the representation of man's struggle with pride. When we (in unison) humble ourselves in all aspects of life then and only then will we be successful.
GIVE A HELPING HAND to whoever needs it, and don't be arrogant, or too proud to receive help either. Those are words to live by.
Here is another good poem I cited.
I Gave myself to him,
And took himself for pay.
The solemn contract of a life
Was ratified this way.
The wealth might disappoint,
Myself a poorer prove
Than this great purchaser suspect,
The daily own of Love
Depreciate the vision;
But, till the merchant buy,
Still fable, in the isles of spice,
The subtle cargoes lie.
At least, `t is mutual risk,--
Some found it mutual gain;
Sweet debt of life,-- each night to owe,
Insolvent, every noon.
"A poem of unrequited love/faulty buisness transaction!" You truly can't help but love this stuff. Emily's poems will grab any reader's heart. If you are a lover of poetry then this is required reading. If these two samples of her work don't convince you to read her collection of poetry then nothing will.
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