What's everyone's favorite Emily Dickinson poem?

What's everyone's favorite Emily Dickinson poem?
I really like "The brain is wider than the sky".
Do you know it?

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>Dickinson

Ahahaha I wonder who was the retard that decided to have "dickinson" as his second name

Seriously you will ruin your child social life

She's a great poet, and I place her in the category of artists also inhabited by Fernando Pessoa.

My favorite poem is probably the one about the frogs croaking its name all day as a metaphor for attention-whoring.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes

why did she never find love
I would have married her in a heartbeat

she had a lover (a lesbean lover)

is that what your "gender and the american canon" social studies course taught you by Ms. Horowitz-Rosenblatt taught you

Nice, hadn't read that one.

no, here super breathy letters to her lesbian lover did, you stupid motherfucker

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I want to put my Dickinher

We Grow Accustomed to the Dark
A Certain Slant of Light
Of the not so known, the one that begins:
Two Swimmers wrestled on the Spar.

>you stupid motherfucker
>posted no proof
wow you must have a PHD

>expecting someone to volunteer to be assed everytime you bitch about learning that everyone in the past wasn't a straight white male

I have but one thought, Susie, this afternoon of June, and that of you, and I have one prayer, only; dear Susie, that is for you. That you and I in hand as we e’en do in heart, might ramble away as children, among the woods and fields, and forget these many years, and these sorrowing cares, and each become a child again — I would it were so, Susie, and when I look around me and find myself alone, I sigh for you again; little sigh, and vain sigh, which will not bring you home.

I need you more and more, and the great world grows wider, and dear ones fewer and fewer, every day that you stay away — I miss my biggest heart; my own goes wandering round, and calls for Susie — Friends are too dear to sunder, Oh they are far too few, and how soon they will go away where you and I cannot find them, don’t let us forget these things, for their remembrance now will save us many an anguish when it is too late to love them! Susie, forgive me Darling, for every word I say — my heart is full of you, none other than you is in my thoughts, yet when I seek to say to you something not for the world, words fail me. If you were here — and Oh that you were, my Susie, we need not talk at all, our eyes would whisper for us, and your hand fast in mine, we would not ask for language — I try to bring you nearer, I chase the weeks away till they are quite departed, and fancy you have come, and I am on my way through the green lane to meet you, and my heart goes scampering so, that I have much ado to bring it back again, and learn it to be patient, till that dear Susie comes. Three weeks — they can’t last always, for surely they must go with their little brothers and sisters to their long home in the west!

I shall grow more and more impatient until that dear day comes, for till now, I have only mourned for you; now I begin to hope for you.

Dear Susie, I have tried hard to think what you would love, of something I might send you — I at last say my little Violets, they begged me to let them go, so here they are — and with them as Instructor, a bit of knightly grass, who also begged the favor to accompany them — they are but small, Susie, and I fear not fragrant now, but they will speak to you of warm hearts at home, and of something faithful which “never slumbers nor sleeps” — Keep them ‘neath your pillow, Susie, they will make you dream of blue-skies, and home, and the “blessed contrie”! You and I will have an hour with “Edward” and “Ellen Middleton”, sometime when you get home — we must find out if some things contained therein are true, and if they are, what you and me are coming to!

Now, farewell, Susie, and Vinnie sends her love, and mother her’s, and I add a kiss, shyly, lest there is somebody there! Don’t let them see, will you Susie?

that's a letter to her sister in law
they were very good friends
now explain to me why you think they went to ass to ass just like Rosenblatt told you
do you also think she's agender and otherkin?

You realize she was hardcore Christian for most of her life, right?
Even after she started losing faith she was the kind of person who would have thought you needed to be put out of your misery for being gay, that's just the period of time she lived in.

does her lesbianism personally offend you?

>my heart is full of you, none other than you is in my thoughts, yet when I seek to say to you something not for the world, words fail me

>Oh that you were, my Susie, we need not talk at all, our eyes would whisper for us, and your hand fast in mine, we would not ask for language — I try to bring you nearer,

> sometime when you get home — we must find out if some things contained therein are true, and if they are, what you and me are coming to!

where did she say that, bud?

She didn't. Infact her explicitly mentioning it would have been very weird.
Maybe actually read some of what she wrote and don't just masturbate over the two or three poems of hers you talked about in school.
Her initial devotion to the church and her ever so gradually and slowly turning away from it in her later years is incredibly apparent if you read through some of her material in chronological order.

Have (you) read the letters? Dickinson did love Sue for a season but in a manner lost to us (now) after a certain age. And I really doubt Emily was boning her brother's wife (Sue), user. He (Austen) at any rate certainly was.

I meant hating homosexuals, user.

yeah, and Lewis Carroll wasn't a pedophile, and Joyce used the fart as a metaphor

Homosexuality being something socially acceptable is incredibly new, user. In the 1800s it was literally unheard of in the civilized world and especially so among the hardcore Christian societies. It's possible she didn't put much importance on same-sex romance period considering it was simply so far out there during those years, and if she held feelings of that nature she most likely just wrote them off as a type of familial love.

Um. She flirted with absolutely everyone and as she grew up and the relationship with Sue cooled the ratio of lengthy flirtatious letters to men as opposed to women is ca. 100:0. That's just a fact.

I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –

Her poems resonate with the heart.

She literally read Whitman's poem about getting Bukkaked on

so she stopped fucking Sue, then

>Homosexuality being something socially acceptable is incredibly new, user.

*in the western part of the world

she was an extreme christian
filth like you tries to project its degeneracy backwards through all of history to justify itself

No. It was Austen who stopped fucking Sue. And started fucking Mabel. Once on the Dickinson's dining room table when no one was home. Except Emily upstairs, of course. Think she watched?

I'm not gay user. I just recognize when someone wants to fuck.

"I felt a funeral in my brain" is really good. Also, "After great pain, a formal feeling comes" is good.

This shit right here - this is bullshit.

>she was an extreme christian
somebody doesn't know anything about Dickinson

and that somebody is you

To call her an "extreme christian" is an overstatement. She questioned divinity in a lot of her poems. She was likely an agnostic

The Bible is an antique Volume—
Written by faded men
At the suggestion of Holy Spectres—
Subjects—Bethlehem—
Eden—the ancient Homestead—
Satan—the Brigadier—
Judas—the Great Defaulter—
David—the Troubador—
Sin—a distinguished Precipice
Others must resist—
Boys that "believe" are very lonesome—
Other Boys are "lost"—
Had but the Tale a warbling Teller—
All the Boys would come—
Orpheus' Sermon captivated—
It did not condemn—

Not the EC poster, but I can guess where he's coming from. Religion really did obsess Dickinson. She wrestled with it all her life. She rued its waning for many reasons, one of which was that she felt it 'made the behavior small.' Anyone that involved and probably daily with the faith:doubt polarity is pretty extreme. Jacob wrestling with the angel and Heaven and Immortality are all of course major themes.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’
And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?

The Feet, mechanical, go round –
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone –

This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

She most definitely was VERY christian when she started writing. A lot of her older poems are all about the glory of god and draw many biblical influences. She did however slowly lose faith over time, as she grew older she attributed less and less to god and the church until she eventually straight up denounced the bible.

I'm sorry, but this is completely wrong. Oddly, the ambivalence she felt (for the Bible and for God) was pretty consistent from *early girlhood* on up until the day she died, and the indifference she felt for organized religion AS consistent, although she did attend church with her family up until her sixteenth year. Also, IF ANYTHING, she became more religiously conservative as she aged, actively regretting time and again the laxity in behavior the conclusion of the Civil War brought on. I could go into detail, but why bother? (You) clearly don't know what youre talking about.

>DFW thread ruined by christian nonsense
>Dickinson thread ruined by christian nonsense
>incel thread with over 240 posts
winter is the new summer

"I dwell in Possibility" is one of the finest lines in English lit in my opinion.

Never read poetry but I have a collection of her poems. Can I get a quick rundown on how to appreciate this kind of stuff. We never learned anything in my high school lit classes we just read To Kill a Mockingbird

you read a poem and think about it, maybe read it a couple more times

read it out loud, only pause with punctuation, a dash pauses as long as a period

You open the book and read a few random poems. Once you find one that you think is nice you read through it silently a couple times, then speak it out loud and annunciation like you would if you read it to someone else. Then think a little about what it could mean, how it reflects on your own experiences or what is currently happening in the world, think about what she could have been feeling or going through when she wrote it, and just let your thoughts take you wherever they do.

Dickinson's stuff is nice because it's oftentimes even more relevant now than it was centuries ago. Take something like, it's incredibly relevant nowadays as biotech comes closer and closer to being able to straight up replicate even the human brain and artificial intelligence isn't such a distant concept anymore

>The brain is wider than the sky,
>For, put them side by side,
>The one the other will include
>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, lift them, pound for pound,
>And they will differ, if they do,
>As syllable from sound.

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Dickins' son

>A fairer house than Prose
Yep. It's a good one. Here's the first line of its companion piece-
>This was a Poet -- It is That

>English """"""poetry""""""

Well its better than French and Italian, that's for sure. Maybe not Spanish. Better than German except maybe Rilke. Dunno about Eastern Lang, or whether Pushkin can save an entire language.

This was a Poet -- It is That
Distills amazing sense
From ordinary Meanings
And Attar so immense

From the familiar species
That perished by the Door
We wonder it was not Ourselves
Arrested it -- before

Of Pictures -- the Discloser
The Poet -- it is He
Entitles us -- by Contrast
To ceaseless Poverty

Of portion -- so unconscious
The Robbing -- could not harm
Himself -- to Him -- a Fortune
Exterior -- to Time

Tis not that Dying hurts us so —
'Tis Living — hurts us more —
But Dying — is a different way —
A kind behind the Door —

The Southern Custom — of the Bird —
That ere the Frosts are due —
Accepts a better Latitude —
We — are the Birds — that stay.

The Shiverers round Farmers' doors —
For whose reluctant Crumb —
We stipulate — till pitying Snows
Persuade our Feathers Home.

lol