Poetry Café

Introducing
Emily Dickinson

December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886

Born in Amherst, Massachusetts, Emily lived a very reclusive and introverted life, rarely a leaving her home and known for staying in her room most of the time. As a result, she had few friends, never married anyone, and chose to communicate with her friends by correspondence.

Though she lead a very ''alone'' life, the few people she came in contact with had a profound influence on her poetry.

In the summer of 1884, Emily fainted while baking in the kitchen. She was then confined to a bed and died at the age of 55 of Bright's disease.

She is considered one of the greatest American poets and wrote an astounding 1,700 (or more) poems, of which less than a dozen published during her lifetime. Her legacy lives on: she is now taught in poetry and American Lit classes from middle school through college.
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Now that we know a bit about Emily, let's look at a few of her poems!
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Two Butterflies went out at Noon—

Two Butterflies went out at Noon—
And waltzed above a Farm—
Then stepped straight through the Firmament
And rested on a Beam—

And then—together bore away
Upon a shining Sea—
Though never yet, in any Port—
Their coming mentioned—be—

If spoken by the distant Bird—
If met in Ether Sea
By Frigate, or by Merchantman—
No notice—was—to me—
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I hide myself within my flower

I hide myself within my flower,
That wearing on your breast,
You, unsuspecting, wear me too—
And angels know the rest.

I hide myself within my flower,
That, fading from your vase,
You, unsuspecting, feel for me
Almost a loneliness.
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Heart, we will forget him!

Heart, we will forget him!
You and I, to-night!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me,
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! lest while you’re lagging,
I may remember him!
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Emily was indeed an amazing poet. If you'd like to read more of her brilliant work, visit this website!

Who would you like to see featured on Poetry Cafe? Submit!

30 years of a pack a day
All my memories of you are in smoke-filled rooms
Funny thing is that it's not the thing that
ultimately wore you down
to pale skin stretched over tired bones.
The day we came to check on you
my dad told me to wait in the car.
I didn't listen and I followed him in.
You laid in a bed in your living room
half dead
and your son sat on the couch with that
same old defeated look.
I smiled and talked, tried to pretend
you weren't nearing the end
and gave you a hug and kiss when we
left.
2 months later
your baby boy called.
31 years old and sobbing
that you wouldn't wake up.
The funeral was held--
the honorary shots were fired by young men in blue.
Dad told me I didn't need to go.
Meaning to just stay home.
I pulled out the old music box
you once gave to me
and played it over and over. Molly, 14 from California, USA

Stephanie, I think you may have missed Mercedees' point about the theme. I think she meant any color, not one in specific that you arbitrarily chose. What if dark blue doesn't actually inspire any kind of feeling or reaction? Why does it have to be dark blue? You see, the thing about good poetry is that it has to be toyed with, and the creative flow shouldn't have to be interrupted by the kinds of constraints that you put on them in these little contests. Allow room for play. Start with a broader topic. Don't just say "write about this", because it's really creatively stifling.

And by the way Steph, I'm not trying to be mean or anything, I'm just trying to point some things out that I think you're doing wrong. I love poetry and used to love this page. Brenja, 20 from Colorado, USA

Submit your wonderful poems. I'm sure you're all very talented and I'd love to read your work. Also, feel free to suggest any famous poet's you'd like featured on Poetry Cafe!