Emily Dickinson on my mind by Steve April on The Pipeline at IndieMusicPeople

Emily Dickinson on my mind
Much madness is divinest sense
to a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
't is the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur you're straightway dangerous,
and handled with a chain.

We play at paste
til qualified for pearl,
then drop the paste,
and deem ourself a fool.
The shapes, though, were similar,
and our new hands
Learned gem-tactics
practicing sands.
Emily Dickinson

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Nigels

1/30/2009 10:51:13 PM ---- Updated 1/30/2009 10:52:05 PM

she wrote the beautiful poetry

I always felt our poets are our brightest and most treasured jewels

and alas just as she who wrote the beautiful songs

all to quickly they are gone

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never never band

1/30/2009 11:20:27 PM ---- Updated 1/30/2009 11:22:11 PM

no snikcidy lime
comes through every time....
this is the one the ol gal has drivin into my heart lately.

-

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
-

E D

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never never band

1/30/2009 11:45:22 PM ---- Updated 1/30/2009 11:47:18 PM

thanks so much for bringing emily here...
another favorite of mine...
(i'm a bit morbid maybe)
Actually I always imagined this poem to be her reference to menopause...or some other midlife revelation, though menopause seems most likely to me.
But experts disagree..
Of course both I and the experts dont know anything,

To me it rings this curious little bell that I discovered several years ago on a winter hike in the Sangre de cristo range where a storm set in and I lost my way for a while.....

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 around,
Or 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.

E D

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Steve April

1/31/2009 12:15:13 PM ---- Updated 1/31/2009 12:21:23 PM

Thanks Nigels and Never never band...here in california, it's saturday morning,
and here's an emily nature poem, and on and on...

The murmur of a bee
a witchcraft yieldeth me.
If any ask me why,
T'were easier to die
than tell.

The red upon the hill
takes away my will,
If anybody sneer,
take care, for God is here,
that's all.

The breaking of the day
addeth to my degree,
if any ask me how,
Artist, who drew me so,
must tell.

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SILVERWOODSTUDIO

1/31/2009 1:59:05 PM

good words to start this day----!

thanks!!

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