I’m the type of guy that will stuff my brain inside as not to let it show. When push comes to shove I stand on a bloody face with my boot on a head reciting a poem mixed between Emily Dickinson and Charles Bukowski knowing no one will understand why I created blood. And fuck them all.
As from the earth the light Balloon
Asks nothing but release—
Ascension that for which it was,
Its soaring Residence.
The spirit looks upon the Dust
That fastened it so long
As a Bird
Defrauded of its song.
-Emily Dickinson. A complete book of poems by Emily Dickinson.
There’s something about starting a day reading a poem by Emily that pushes my morning into a positive light.
New England bands culture with devotion. Where the four seasons are to be experienced and enjoyed, not endured. -M. Taggart
New England consists of six states. Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Rhode Island and Massachusetts. Click the link below if you’d like to read a short story which takes place in the valley-farmlands of Western MA.
The Missing All – Prevented Me
From missing minor Things.
If nothing larger than a World’s
Departure from a Hinge-
Or Sun’s extinction, be observed-
‘Twas not so large that I
Could lift my Forehead from my work
Final Harvest, Emily Dickinson. Page 228, (985)
I especially enjoy Emily’s use of punctuation as she saw fit. Fitting her needs of expression. I don’t ask why she capitalized some and not others in a judgmental manner. As I was judged recently on a poem I wrote. No. I ask why because I’m pushed internally to know more and better learn her state of mind. Why judge an artist when it’s their creativity that drew your eyes to begin with.
Emily is a master. She was then also. It wasn’t Emily’s fault it took decades for understanding to catch up.