It has already become a personal tradition to start the year by reading a poetry collection of Emily Dickinson. In this case, I chose a bilingual edition and truly, I loved the experience.

She seems to me an excellent poet, intelligent and calculating, with interesting nuances and concepts.

Reading the original poem, then in translation, and having the option to compare both made it much clearer to me why I like and am so impacted by her poems.

Although her style appears simple, accessible, and concise, I believe the possibilities of interpretation and analysis are infinite. Therefore, it is highly recommended.

I find that Emily Dickinson's works offer a unique window into her complex and creative mind. The bilingual edition allows for a deeper exploration of her language and ideas, as one can compare the original and the translation.

Each poem seems to hold multiple layers of meaning, waiting to be discovered by the reader. Her use of imagery, metaphor, and rhythm adds to the richness and beauty of her poetry.

Whether you are a seasoned poetry lover or new to the genre, reading Emily Dickinson's poems is sure to be a rewarding experience.

I look forward to continuing to explore her works and uncovering new insights and interpretations in the years to come.

Full disclosure: I was younger when I first encountered Dickinson's poems. At that time, I only knew a few of them, and those were in the dashless, regularized or perhaps bastardized versions. To be honest, I didn't love them then.

However, over time, I have become endlessly grateful for the extraordinary nature of these poems. They are exhilarating, beguiling, strange, and yes, admittedly sometimes still baffling, but oh so alive. I am currently reading my way through them once again, a few pages each morning, and I find myself still deeply in love with the work.

Take, for example, the line "I'll tell you how the Sun rose--/A Ribbon at a time!". It's just one of the many beautiful and captivating lines in her poems. For me, the work itself remains exponentially more interesting than the lore or myth of the white-dress wearing spinster recluse who may or may not have had same-sex longings or encounters. Although I understand the appeal of the biography, it's the poetry that truly matters.

Oddly enough, I've come across more than one otherwise serious reader who, when Dickinson is mentioned, exclaims almost boastfully, "I hate her!". Having once myself not loved what little I knew of the poems, my theory is that anyone who hates the poems has not read enough and/or the right versions of them. It's possible that they may actually just not like poetry in general.

But for those of us who have delved deeper into Dickinson's work, we have discovered a world of beauty, complexity, and wonder that is truly unique.

In many cases, these verses will seem to the reader like poetry torn up by the roots, with rain and dew and earth still clinging to them, giving a freshness and a fragrance not otherwise to be conveyed. ~Thomas Wentworth Higginson, from the Introduction

Emily Dickinson, the mighty recluse with an extraordinary interior life, bequeathed humanity an amazing torrent of poetry. While some of these poems may not have had a profound impact on everyone, a significant portion of them are truly brilliant. Ranging from simple beauty to sly cleverness and even deep profundity, these short poems (the longest taking less than two pages) are powerful in their simplicity.

Dickinson's poems can be divided into three basic categories for me. There are those that capture her unique take on nature. Many of her poems also revolve around aspects of mortality. And then there are my favorites - those that contemplate imagination and the ineffable. These poems display an erudition and an impressive command of language, married to a style of straightforward simplicity. They reveal a poet whose keen eye captured simple things in fascinatingly creative ways. And they illustrate a spirit that, while intensely concerned with powerful subjects like death and the ineffable, was also impishly cheeky. She personified Death as "the porter in my father's house" and casually referred to "our old neighbor, God."

Below are a selection of a few of my favorite Dickinson poems.
The Brain—is wider than the Sky— For—put them side by side—The one the other will contain With ease—and you—beside—
The Brain is deeper than the sea— For—hold them—Blue to Blue— The one the other will absorb— As sponges—Buckets—do—
The Brain is just the weight of God— For—Heft them—Pound for Pound— And they will differ—if they do—As Syllable from Sound—

There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands away Nor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry –This Traverse may the poorest take Without oppress of Toll –How frugal is the Chariot That bears the Human Soul –

Death is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust. "Dissolve" says Death — The Spirit "Sir I have another Trust" —Death doubts it — Argues from the Ground —The Spirit turns away Just laying off for evidence An Overcoat of Clay.

The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.

THE ORIOLE One of the ones that Midas touched,
Who failed to touch us all,
Was that confiding prodigal,
The blissful oriole. So drunk, he disavows it With badinage divine; So dazzling, we mistake him For an alighting mine. A pleader, a dissembler, An epicure, a thief, —Betimes an oratorio, An ecstasy in chief; The Jesuit of orchards, He cheats as he enchants Of an entire attar For his decamping wants. The splendor of a Burmah, The meteor of birds, Departing like a pageant Of ballads and of bards. I never thought that Jason sought For any golden fleece; But then I am a rural man, With thoughts that make for peace. But if there were a Jason, Tradition suffer me Behold his lost emolument Upon the apple-tree.

I taste a liquor never brewed – From Tankards scooped in Pearl – Not all the Frankfort Berries Yield such an Alcohol! Inebriate of air – am I – And Debauchee of Dew – Reeling – thro' endless summer days – From inns of molten Blue – When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee Out of the Foxglove's door – When Butterflies – renounce their "drams" – I shall but drink the more! Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats – And Saints – to windows run – To see the little Tippler Leaning against the – Sun!

  They shut me up in Prose —
As when a little Girl
They put me in the Closet —
Because they liked me “still” —

Still! Could themself have peeped —
And seen my Brain — go round —
They might as wise have lodged a Bird
For Treason — in the Pound —

Himself has but to will
And easy as a Star
Abolish his Captivity —
And laugh — No more have I —

I recently came across an argument against eBooks. It centered around suspicions of censorship. The idea was that publishers and the like could easily change the text at any point via the digital interface. They could obfuscate any material they thought necessary, thus making the interaction between reader and reading like that of a puppet and a puppeteer. This is a plausible occurrence, but it's not new. Technology doesn't give birth to new abuses of communication and truth; it just makes them happen faster and leaves a different kind of trail.

A century and a quarter after Dickinson's death, and almost sixty years after the last of her poems were finally published as they were meant to be, people still focus too much on the means by which she composed. They forget about her seven years of higher learning, the network of letters that enabled a vibrant circle of thought, and the amazing breadth and brilliant insight of her oeuvre, which puts many classical novels to shame. Instead, they focus on how weird she was, how closeted her life was, how quiet her compositions were, and how they rescued her work and shaped it to fit the public's whims and fancies of how an American gentlewoman of that time should have written. It's so easy for us to focus on the cutesy trifles, the small morbidities, and the things we call experimentation in men and "capriciousness" in women.

One good thing that Johnson did when he wasn't patronizing Dickinson was to accompany each poem with two years: one of composition and the other of publication. The first review was written in 1862 and published in 1935. The second was also written in 1862 but published in 1945. Once the anger at such censorship has cooled, the text becomes invaluable. It's a shameless record of the persistence of a work through the consternation of the ages. Paranoia inspired by digital outposts is nothing compared to a history of flagrant editing, closeting, disbelief, and pride.

  Endow the Living — with the Tears —
You squander on the Dead,
And They were Men and Women — now,
Around Your Fireside —

Instead of Passive Creatures,
Denied the Cherishing
Till They — the Cherishing deny —
With Death's Ethereal Scorn —

Written unknown, published 1945. The academics say Dickinson's work is multifaceted, as if this wasn't a lifetime contained in 1,775 proofs of existence. The range of thematic material could have easily come together into one of those weighty tomes popularized by those with enough time and respect for their endeavors. Topics like Thought, Truth, Ethics, Creation, Creed, Deserving Pride, Bound Despair, Fragility of Self, Violence of Intellectual Development, Inexorable Stretching of Time from Second to Eternity, and All the Survival Between are just a few of the ones captured so surely in her work.

  His Mind like Fabrics of the East
Displayed to the despair
Of everyone but here and there
An humble Purchaser —
For though his price was not of Gold —
More arduous there is —
That one should comprehend the worth
Was all the price there was —

Written 1878, published 1945. Even her compositional submission to virulent androcentrism couldn't revive this piece until nearly seventy years had passed. Her mind was a marvel, and she knew it. There's clear evidence in her just contempt, her needful compartmentalization, and her courting with the furthest ends of triumph and oblivion. She didn't need to go to war to know the futility of achieving glory and fame through homicidal finality, nor did she need to venture far from her chosen methodology of creation to contemplate the rise and fall of Life and Ideal in the world.

  Witchcraft was hung, in History,
But History and I
Find all the Witchcraft that we need
Around us, every Day —

Written 1883, published 1945.

  I think I was enchanted
When first a somber Girl —
I read that Foreign Lady —
The Dark — felt beautiful —

[...]

Written 1862, published 1935.

  [...]

My Splendors, are Menagerie —
But their Completeless Show
Will entertain the Centuries
When I, am long ago,
An Island in dishonored Grass —
Whom none but Beetles — know.

Written 1861, published 1896. Whitman's multitudes came first, but Dickinson knew the difference then as clearly as she would now. She was dead when others came to rifle through her work, and yet they still insisted on putting it and her persona through the torturous paces of that time until today. Her words excavated themselves long before technology came into play. How long will it be until we stop pretending otherwise?

P.S. She talked about the Birds and the Bees a lot. Just saying.

I have a profound love for Dickinson.

To be more precise, it is the sense of balance that I experience whenever I read any of her poems that truly captivates me.

Her poetry is like a glimmer of light shining within the overwhelming darkness. It is both straightforward and yet subtly nuanced.

The originality of her work can sometimes be truly startling.

Through reading her poems, I have gleaned an abundance of knowledge.

However, the most powerful lesson that I have taken away from Dickinson is the admonition to "Tell all the truth but tell it slant... The Truth must dazzle gradually/ Or every man be blind."

This concept has had a profound impact on my understanding of how to approach and communicate the truth.

It has made me realize that sometimes, the most effective way to convey the truth is not through direct and blatant means, but rather through a more oblique and artful approach.

Dickinson's words have truly opened my eyes and have left an indelible mark on my literary and intellectual journey.

Emily Dickinson's poem presents a profound exploration of the limitations of language. She claims to have found the words for every thought she ever had, except for one. This particular thought defies her, much like a hand attempting to chalk the sun. The imagery here is powerful, suggesting the futility of trying to capture something so vast and intangible. Dickinson then poses a series of rhetorical questions, asking how one would begin to describe a blaze in cochineal or noon in mazarin to races nurtured in the dark. These questions further emphasize the difficulty of expressing the inexpressible. The poem leaves the reader with a sense of wonder and a recognition of the mystery that lies beyond the reach of language.

"I found the words to every thought
I ever had - but One -
And that - defies Me -
As a Hand did try to chalk the Sun

To Races - nurtured in the Dark -
How would your Own - begin?
Can Blaze be shown in Cochineal -
Or Noon - in Mazarin?"

A Soul Full of Flowers

Why do I love You, Sir?

Because the wind does not require the grass to answer. When He passes, the grass cannot keep her place. The wind just blows, and the grass has to yield.

Because He knows, and we do not. That wisdom is enough for us. There are things that are known only to Him, and that's okay.

The lightning never asked an eye why it shut when He was by. Because He knows it cannot speak, and there are reasons not contained in talk that are preferred by daintier folk.

The Sunrise, Sire, compelleth me. Because He's the Sunrise, and I see. Therefore, then, I love Thee. The beauty and power of the Sunrise are so compelling that they make me love. It's a force that I cannot resist.

Dickinson had an extraordinary and masterful grasp on the diverse and complex highs and lows of the human experience. She was a beautiful soul with a delightfully multifaceted personality, encompassing traits such as playfulness, piety, a touch of morbidity, and an underlying sense of hope. I dedicated a significant portion of the year to carefully picking through her works. Hers is a body of poetry that truly rewards meditative and thoughtful reading. There are certain segments that, despite my best efforts, remain a bit lost on me. However, when one of her lines hits just right, it has an impact that is like a powerful hammer striking your chest, capable of bringing tears welling up in your eyes.

Her poems are filled with profound and thought-provoking lines. Take, for example, "Are friends delight or pain? Could bounty but remain Riches were good. But if they only stay Bolder to fly away Riches are sad." This line makes us question the nature of friendship and the value of wealth.

Or consider "Will there really be a morning? Is there such a thing as day?" which reflects on the fundamental aspects of time and existence.

"The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land" evokes a sense of adventure and exploration.

"The grass has so little to do I wish I were the hay!" shows her unique perspective on the simplicity of life.

"Faith is a fine invention For gentlemen who see; But microscopes are prudent In an emergency!" challenges our notions of faith and practicality.

"Who has not found heaven below Will fail of it above." makes us think about the importance of finding joy and meaning in the present.

"Is bliss, then, such abyss I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe?" explores the concept of happiness and the fear of losing it.

"The dying need but little, dear, - A glass of water's all, A flower's unobtrusive face To punctuate a wall, A fan, perhaps, a friend's regret, And certainly that one No color in the rainbow Perceives when you are gone." This beautiful and poignant line reminds us of the simplicity and significance of the things that matter in the face of death.

"Water is taught by thirst; Land, by the oceans passed; Transport, by throe; Peace, by its battles told; Love, by memorial mould; Birds, by the snow." presents a series of contrasts that help us understand the nature of various experiences.

"A toad can die of light! Death is the common right Of toads and men, - Of earl and midge The privilege. Why swagger then? The gnats supremacy Is large as thine." This final line emphasizes the equality of all beings in the face of death and challenges our sense of superiority.

Emily Dickinson is one of my favorite literary discoveries.

Her poems are not always easy to understand, but the rhythm, meaning, and love that she has put into them make reading her a true pleasure.

The way she views the world is quite similar to mine, and I think people like her mainly because she is honest and bravely reveals the truths about society, human relationships, values, and morality.

Her love for nature and her incredible ability to describe everything, regardless of the theme, in such a magical and captivating way, in my opinion, makes her the best American poetess.

She has a unique style that sets her apart from others, and her works continue to inspire and touch the hearts of readers around the world.

Emily Dickinson's poetry is a treasure trove that I will always cherish and explore further.

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But do you think it's normal that I, although I'm aware that Emily Dickinson is one of the greatest American poets, still keep imagining her in the English countryside? Every time I read one of her "naturalist" poems, my mind gives birth to thoughts like "what a beautiful description of the English countryside". This is just to give you an idea of the chaotic state of my mind and why I call you "proud followers".

Anyway, let's talk about Emily Dickinson, the American poetess. I would start by saying that Dickinson was a rebellious woman: she began by refusing to publicly profess Christianity and ended up voluntarily isolating herself in her room, so that her thoughts and her poems flowed copiously and freely from her mind.

Despite her isolation, in fact, Dickinson clearly felt the tensions of her time: the abyss that was opening up between tradition and the new individualism, between puritanism and capitalism. Few grasped the innovative significance of her poems: Thomas Wentworth Higginson, a critic of the Atlantic Monthly with whom Emily Dickinson established a long correspondence, defined her verses as "spasmodic". It must also be said, however, that the poor man went down in history for not understanding a thing about the poetess.

She herself was aware of this (and probably even made fun of it a little, elegantly and poetically), but she refused to "fix" her poems so that Higginson - and those who thought like him - would like them. However, it must be said in favor of the poor man that thanks to him we have received a lot of information about Dickinson and this has helped us to have a clearer idea of her.

Personally, I was struck by the power of the joy of living and equally by the abyss of pain that Dickinson's compositions emanate. If her life seemed unbearably monotonous, her inner world was fervent and rich, so much so that Dickinson's life is told more in terms of reflections than in terms of strictly biographical facts.

My advice is to read her poems, at least once in a lifetime. In the brevity of her verses there is a power that, in my opinion, must be experienced.

Can you tell I started watching Dickinson again? Lmaooo. I have a newfound appreciation for this show. The storylines are so engaging and the characters are full of depth. Each episode takes me on a journey through the life and times of Emily Dickinson and her family. The cinematography is beautiful, capturing the essence of the era. The dialogue is sharp and witty, making me laugh out loud at times. I love how the show explores themes such as love, loss, and the pursuit of art. It's a truly unique and captivating viewing experience. I can't wait to see what else this season has in store for me.