I’ve always loved Emily Dickinson. She’s the greatest American poet and also America’s most misunderstood poet. People think she was some kind of hermit and vaguely remember her from a high school English class. Obviously, I have opinions. She was a brilliant poet, a keen observer. Her use of punctuation made me feel confident to use it the way I do. She made up words — just like Shakespeare. She wrote in riddles. No one wrote like that. Her style was something new. She only had a few poems published before she died and they were horribly edited — just terrible. After her death, her sister contacted the local college and a professor’s wife started the enormous task of editing and organizing Dickinson’s life’s work. At some point another editor got in the mix and they bastardized her work, making it conform to that of the time. They gave titles to previously untitled poems. Later, the titles would be stripped and numbered for easier reference. It wasn’t until 1981 that Dickinson’s work was published in its original form. Over 100 years after her death. Yes, that’s all from my memory. It’s my only talent.
I saw this graphic the other day and it made me think of a transparency (kids today wouldn’t know the terror of teachers having to make transparencies for overhead machines) I made in college of this same poem. I thought I’d share it with y’all. I’ll give you my analysis: hope gives us so much — strength and spirituality, soul. But it doesn’t require or ask for anything. Just as I have hope for this new year. Hope yields much and wants nothing.
#314 in its entirety
“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.
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