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Dickinson, Emily

· EMILY DICKINSON: ONE YEAR AGO · EMILY DICKINSON: THE MARTYR POETS (vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld) · Emily Dickinson: I Died For Beauty · Emily Dickinson: The Last Night That She Lived · Emily Dickinson: Death Is a Dialogue · Emily Dickinson: A Train Went Through a Burial Gate · Emily Dickinson: The Great Storm Is Over · Emily Dickinson: Have You Got a Brook in Your Little Heart · Hans Hermans photos; Emily Dickinson poem · Emily Dickinson: Transplanted · Emily Dickinson: To Fight Aloud Is Very Brave · Emily Dickinson: So Bashful When I Spied Her

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EMILY DICKINSON: ONE YEAR AGO

poetryarchive116

One Year ago

One Year ago — jots what?
God — spell the word! I — can’t —
Was’t Grace? Not that —
Was’t Glory? That — will do —
Spell slower — Glory —

Such Anniversary shall be —
Sometimes — not often — in Eternity —
When farther Parted, than the Common Woe —
Look — feed upon each other’s faces — so —
In doubtful meal, if it be possible
Their Banquet’s true —

I tasted — careless — then —
I did not know the Wine
Came once a World — Did you?
Oh, had you told me so —
This Thirst would blister — easier — now —
You said it hurt you — most —
Mine — was an Acorn’s Breast —
And could not know how fondness grew
In Shaggier Vest —
Perhaps — I couldn’t —
But, had you looked in —
A Giant — eye to eye with you, had been —
No Acorn — then —

So — Twelve months ago —
We breathed —
Then dropped the Air —
Which bore it best?
Was this — the patientest —
Because it was a Child, you know —
And could not value — Air?

If to be “Elder” — mean most pain —
I’m old enough, today, I’m certain — then —
As old as thee — how soon?
One — Birthday more — or Ten?
Let me — choose!
Ah, Sir, None!

Emily Dickinson

January 1, 2015
HAPPY NEW YEAR!

fleursdumal.nl magazine

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EMILY DICKINSON: THE MARTYR POETS (vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld)

dickinsonemily

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

The Martyr Poets

The Martyr Poets did not tell,
But wrought their Pang in syllable:
That, when their mortal name be numb,
Their mortal fate encourage Some.
The Martyr Painters never spoke,
Bequeathing—rather—to their Work:
That when their conscious fingers cease,
Some seek in Art the Art of Peace.

[4-voetige jambische regels, rijmschema aabb, 1 halfrijm]

 

De Dichter Martelaars

De Dichter Martelaars spraken niet,
Hun pijn bleek sprekend uit hun lied:
Dat men, hun naam gedood voorgoed,
Soms uit hun noodlot put voor moed.

De Schilder Martelaars, spraken nooit,
Vermaakten— veeleer—Werk voltooid;
Dat men, hun hand zijn vormkracht kwijt,
Uit Kunst, soms Vredeskunst bereidt.

Vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Dickinson, Dickinson, Emily, TRANSLATION ARCHIVE


Emily Dickinson: I Died For Beauty

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

I Died For Beauty

 

I died for beauty, but was scarce

Adjusted in the tomb,

When one who died for truth was lain

In an adjoining room.

 

He questioned softly why I failed?

“For beauty,” I replied.

“And I for truth, — the two are one;

We brethren are,” he said.

 

And so, as kinsmen met a night,

We talked between the rooms,

Until the moss had reached our lips,

And covered up our names.

 

Emily Dickinson poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Dickinson, Emily


Emily Dickinson: The Last Night That She Lived

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

The Last Night That She Lived

 

The last night that she lived,

It was a common night,

Except the dying; this to us

Made nature different.

 

We noticed smallest things, —

Things overlooked before,

By this great light upon our minds

Italicized, as ‘t were.

 

That others could exist

While she must finish quite,

A jealousy for her arose

So nearly infinite.

 

We waited while she passed;

It was a narrow time,

Too jostled were our souls to speak,

At length the notice came.

 

She mentioned, and forgot;

Then lightly as a reed

Bent to the water, shivered scarce,

Consented, and was dead.

 

And we, we placed the hair,

And drew the head erect;

And then an awful leisure was,

Our faith to regulate.

 

Emily Dickinson poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Dickinson, Emily


Emily Dickinson: Death Is a Dialogue

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

Death Is a Dialogue

 

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.

 

Emily Dickinson poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Dickinson, Emily


Emily Dickinson: A Train Went Through a Burial Gate

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

A Train Went Through a Burial Gate

 

A train went through a burial gate,

A bird broke forth and sang,

And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throat

Till all the churchyard rang;

 

And then adjusted his little notes,

And bowed and sang again.

Doubtless, he thought it meet of him

To say good-by to men.

 

Emily Dickinson poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

More in: Dickinson, Emily


Emily Dickinson: The Great Storm Is Over

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

The Great Storm Is Over

 

Glee! The great storm is over!

Four have recovered the land;

Forty gone down together

Into the boiling sand.

 

Ring, for the scant salvation!

Toll, for the bonnie souls, —

Neighbor and friend and bridegroom,

Spinning upon the shoals!

 

How they will tell the shipwreck

When winter shakes the door,

Till the children ask, “But the forty?

Did they come back no more?”

 

Then a silence suffuses the story,

And a softness the teller’s eye;

And the children no further question,

And only the waves reply.

 

Emily Dickinson poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

More in: Dickinson, Emily


Emily Dickinson: Have You Got a Brook in Your Little Heart

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

 

Have You Got a Brook in Your Little Heart

Have you got a brook in your little heart,

Where bashful flowers blow,

And blushing birds go down to drink,

And shadows tremble so?

 

And nobody knows, so still it flows,

That any brook is there;

And yet your little draught of life

Is daily drunken there.

 

Then look out for the little brook in March,

When the rivers overflow,

And the snows come hurrying from the hills,

And the bridges often go.

 

And later, in August it may be,

When the meadows parching lie,

Beware, lest this little brook of life

Some burning noon go dry!

 

Emily Dickinson poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

More in: Dickinson, Emily


Hans Hermans photos; Emily Dickinson poem

May-Flower

 

Pink, small, and punctual,

Aromatic, low,

Covert in April,

Candid in May,

 

Dear to the moss,

Known by the knoll,

Next to the robin

In every human soul.

 

Bold little beauty,

Bedecked with thee,

Nature forswears

Antiquity.

 

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

Hans Hermans Natuurdagboek

Poem: Emily Dickinson

Photos: Hans Hermans

June 2011

♦ Website Hans Hermans

kempis.nl poetry magazine

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Emily Dickinson: Transplanted

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

Transplanted

 

As if some little Arctic flower,

Upon the polar hem,

Went wandering down the latitudes,

Until it puzzled came

To continents of summer,

To firmaments of sun,

To strange, bright crowds of flowers,

And birds of foreign tongue!

I say, as if this little flower

To Eden wandered in —

What then? Why, nothing, only,

Your inference therefrom!

 

Emily Dickinson poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

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Emily Dickinson: To Fight Aloud Is Very Brave

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

To Fight Aloud Is Very Brave

 

To fight aloud is very brave,

But gallanter, I know,

Who charge within the bosom,

The cavalry of woe.

 

Who win, and nations do not see,

Who fall, and none observe,

Whose dying eyes no country

Regards with patriot love.

 

We trust, in plumed procession,

For such the angels go,

Rank after rank, with even feet

And uniforms of snow.

 

Emily Dickinson poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

More in: Dickinson, Emily


Emily Dickinson: So Bashful When I Spied Her

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

So Bashful When I Spied Her

 

So bashful when I spied her,

So pretty, so ashamed!

So hidden in her leaflets,

Lest anybody find;

 

So breathless till I passed her,

So helpless when I turned

And bore her, struggling, blushing,

Her simple haunts beyond!

 

For whom I robbed the dingle,

For whom betrayed the dell,

Many will doubtless ask me,

But I shall never tell!

 

Emily Dickinson poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

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