Dickinson wrote a lot about death and eternity and the soul, heavy stuff that takes concentration to unpack. Then there’s this poem, which is eight lines of pure mischief. “I’m Nobody! Who are you?” sounds like something a kid would say on a playground, except it’s actually a sharp little jab at the whole idea … Read more
Dickinson watched a bird and turned it into one of her best nature poems. That’s the whole setup. She’s observing this bird moving along a path, doing bird things, completely unaware it’s being watched. It eats a worm, drinks some dew, hops around, then flies off when she tries to offer it food. Simple encounter, … Read more
This is Dickinson at her most unguarded. Twelve lines of pure desire, either for a person or God or both, depending on how you read it. “Wild nights! Wild nights!” repeats like someone who can’t contain what they’re feeling. The whole poem is about wanting to be with someone so intensely that everything else becomes … Read more
Dickinson’s declaring poetry is better than prose by comparing them to houses. Prose is narrow and confined. Poetry is expansive, full of windows and doors, with the sky itself as a roof. She lives in poetry, dwells in it like it’s an actual place. And that place is bigger, freer, more beautiful than anything prose … Read more