-
The Blog I Mentioned

Many of the poems we're looking at closely cluster around a single year, 1862. Here is a blog kept by a professor at Dartmouth, tracking Dickinson's output and what is known about her life for that year. I haven't done a deep-dive, so I can't confirm it--but my hunch is this might be very interesting to check in with, as we encounter poems from that all-important year.

https://journeys.dartmouth.edu/whiteheat/

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

-
This keeps running through my head: “Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all -
Read more

A Distraction

-
Image
Hi y'all! Not sure I remember how to correctly format a blog post (if this was Tumblr my muscle memory would kick in immediately) and this is not exactly on topic, but I thought I'd share something that might cheer people up....puppies! In an effort to refrain from driving each other crazy during all this, my family is fostering a sweet dog named Ginger (originally spelled Gynger but I refuse to participate in that) and her six two-week-old puppies. I have lots and lots of photos, but here are a few. Puppy name suggestions are welcome! Hope everybody is safe and doing well.
Read more

Paige's Pick(s)

-
I couldn't help but pick 2 poems - upon initial reading, I don't see any connection between the two, but they both spoke to me in ways I can't fully wrap my head and heart around. Hopefully I'll be able to read and articulate my thoughts a bit better by Tuesday. Hope you all are staying well! Best - Paige J #1695 There is a solitude of space A solitude of sea A solitude of death, but these Society shall be Compared with that profounder site That polar privacy A soul admitted to itself — Finite infinity. J #1724 How dare the robins sing, When men and women hear Who since they went to their account Have settled with the year! — Paid all that life had earned In one consummate bill, And now, what life or death can do Is immaterial. Insulting is the sun To him whose mortal light Beguiled of immortality Bequeaths him to the night. Extinct be every hum In deference to him Whose garden wrestles with the dew, At daybreak overcome!
Read more