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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
(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
(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
(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
(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
(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
(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
(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
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
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive C-D, Dickinson, Emily, Hans Hermans Photos
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
More in: Dickinson, Emily
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
(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
More in: Dickinson, Emily
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