JULY

"To see the Summer Sky 

Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie -
True Poems flee"

Emily Dickinson

EMILY DICKINSON

American lyric poet Emily Dickinson died on 15 May 1886. She lived in seclusion and commanded a singular brilliance of style and integrity of vision. With Walt Whitman, she  is widely considered to be one of the two leading 19th-century American poets. Only 10 of Emily Dickinson’s nearly 1,800 poems are known to have been published in her lifetime. Devoted to private pursuits, she sent hundreds of poems to friends and correspondents while apparently keeping the greater number to herself.  Continue reading here.

https://www.emilydickinsonmuseum.org/emily-dickinson/poetry/tips-for-reading/major-characteristics-of-dickinsons-poetry/

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EMILY DICKINSON!

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson is one of America’s greatest and most original poets of all time. She challenged the existing definitions of poetry and the poet’s work. She wrote close to 1800 poems in her lifetime. Her poems are often extremely short, waste no words, and subvert the traditional forms of the day. Read here and here.

She was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, on 10 December 1830. Continue reading here.  

JULY

Answer July—
Where is the Bee—
Where is the Blush—
Where is the Hay?

Ah, said July—
Where is the Seed—
Where is the Bud—
Where is the May—
Answer Thee—Me—

Nay—said the May—
Show me the Snow—
Show me the Bells—
Show me the Jay!

Quibbled the Jay—
Where be the Maize—
Where be the Haze—
Where be the Bur?
Here—said the Year— 

Emily Dickinson

MARCH

Dear March - Come in

Dear March - Come in -    

How glad I am -

I hoped for you before -

Put down your Hat -           

You must have walked -

How out of Breath you are -             

Dear March, how are you, and the Rest -

Did you leave Nature well -              

Oh March, Come right upstairs with me -

I have so much to tell -

I got your Letter, and the Birds -     

The Maples never knew that you were coming -

I declare - how Red their Faces grew -                  

But March, forgive me -    

And all those Hills you left for me to Hue -    

There was no Purple suitable -         

You took it all with you -            

 

Who knocks? That April -

Lock the Door -

I will not be pursued -

He stayed away a Year to call           

When I am occupied -               

But trifles look so trivial     

As soon as you have come

              

That blame is just as dear as Praise

And Praise as mere as Blame.

Emily Dickinson 

NOVEMBER

"November always seemed to me the Norway of the year"
Emily Dickinson

Here  you can download a PDF  presentation of the American poetess.