Emily Dickinson: I live where it is possible

Good Book Recommendation - Emily Dickinson's Collected Poems

Emily Dickinson quietly wrote nearly two thousand poems in her lifetime, about the universe, nature, love, joy, pain, loneliness, death, immortality, etc., and she meditated, rethinking everything for herself, renaming and defining everything, opening up an unprecedented space for American poetry, at least in her time, no one's exploration was so unique, so profound and sublime. The depth and twists of cognition make Dickinson's poetic style generally concise, condensed, cold and thin, full of blankness, fractures and ambiguity.

I could have endured the darkness

If I hadn't seen the sun

Yet the sun has made me wilderness

Become a newer wasteland

In my garden, a little bird

Step on a unicycle

The spokes of the wheels play dizzying music

It's like a mobile mill

I like trees because of their roots

Tree roots under the surface of the land

It's as big as a tree

Like a hidden reflection

At this moment you and I are sitting between two trees

One is what we can see

The other one was upside down and upside down that we couldn't see

It's like a secret

Your mind doesn't have words every day

Words come only once

It's like a sacramental wine

Sip, solemn and mysterious

Even though you taste it willfully

It seems mild and agreeable

You can't understand its value

I don't know if it's strange

I covet one of your things

The ability to forget

Greedy pity

Precipitate its impurities

The most important earthly days

Covered behind a cloth

A face that does not show up

Shrink to a single point

I've never seen wilderness

I've never seen the sea

But I know what Heather looks like

I also know what form a giant wave is

I never spoke to God

Nor did he visit the kingdom of heaven

But I'm sure of that place

It's like giving a ticket

For every moment of ecstasy

We must pay for the pain

Through hardships, full of bitterness

Talent in exchange for dashing

For every lovely moment

Must be paid for years of meager salary

Half a cent of bitterness

And a cash box soaked in tears

"Hope" is the kind of thing that has feathers

It dwells in the soul

It sings songs without words

Never stop

It is often said that time will smooth out

But time never soothes the real pain

If the wound is really healed

That means it wasn't injured in the first place

For Dickinson, poetry is a method of telling the truth, and she expresses her perception of the world in the language of stained glass because it is opaque and colorful. Her poems tended to be forceful, fragmented, dense, and seemingly missing words—engulfing a dash like a breath in the throat, briefly stagnating, and flowing again. There is nothing known about Dickinson's suffering, but it is in the process of watching the pain and entangling with it that she grows her strength, so that although she is a hermit, she is ahead of all mankind.