Every time I read it, I discover new ideas, meanings, references, metaphors.
And according to my mood, it's like I read a new poem every single time.
I also like Emily Dickinson's poetry. :3
Like, foreals.
I never knew I was fond of any poetry but the metaphysical, where they depend mostly on intellect, and use far fetched ideas to persuade you.
Here come two short novels by Dickinson I read and fell in love with (when I should've been reading all about the American civil war. lol):
If I Can Stop
-----
IF I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
~*~*~
Hope is the Thing with Feathers
----
"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
~*~*~
-----
IF I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
~*~*~
Hope is the Thing with Feathers
----
"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
~*~*~
Maybe I'll add more later?
Even if I seem to be hating upon the subject, I certainly do like a lot of the reading material.
If only that earned me marks. lol
xxx
The Gypsy
Eliot is special because he writes in a time where young men are sent off to die by the millions without a cause other than an arbitrary political entanglement. This makes him physically, mortally ill. God has abandoned his world, and he has abandoned God. His is the most profound despair ever captured in the written word.
ReplyDeleteAnd to address your point below: you're a fantastic writer, artist, friend, scholar, lifeline, twin. xP
Without even looking...
ReplyDelete"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of stony rubbish
Son of man, you cannot say or guess
For you know only a heap of broken images
Where the sun beats
Where the dead tree gives no shelter
The cricket no relief
And the dry stone no sound of water
But there is shadow under this red rock
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock)
And I will show you something different
From your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you
I will show you fear in a handful of dust."