One hundred eighty years ago
A poet was born . . .
I'm naturally drawn to the poetry of Emily Dickinson this time of year.
"There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons -"
I dig through my E. D. poetry book hungry for more moments of pure excellence (for lack of a better term).
This particular poem stands out, for I feel it is an ode to my calling as a writer:
"I dwell in Possibility -"
What a great line. Isn't this what a writer does? I think of it as What if? What if this person in this place had this happen to him or her? What would happen? And the story begins.
The second line of Dickinson's poem:
"A fairer House than Prose -"
Many say this is her declaration as a poet rather than a writer of essays or fiction, but I see it as an explanation of the imagination. This place of possibility is enormous and endless. Possibility always exists.
The Final lines declare:
"The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise -"
The paradise? What can be created!
All of the possibility and what if moments flood with characters and situations, places and imagery. The writing comes from this place, and the possibility is what I hold most important to my own process.
Thank you for putting up with my subjective literary analysis of E. D.
I hope your day is filled with possibility.
Happy Birthday Emily.