Best Amherst Poems
0' Soul, Can Poetic Art Heal Such Broken Heart
Her pen bled deep, and this her fans may yet agree
She felt a torrid hell, darkest of angry seas
Should her pen have conquered deepest of her fears
Could her poems have stopped flow of her falling tears?
Although we may stand aghast at sorrows once seen
Her agony in ink, shows true as Nature's green
Of a poet facing darkness, death and its gloom
Fully aware of life's end, its rest in the tomb.
Seeker of more, Death haunted her with mortal strife
With pains and dying of beloved ones in her life
0' soul, can poetic art heal such broken heart
In glory, renewal of spirit thus impart?
Her pen bled deep, and this her fans may yet agree
Immense sorrows and beauty in her poetry!
Robert J. Lindley, 10-24-2019
Sonnet, ( First poet honored, Renewed Poet's Tribute Series)
Emily Dickinison,
Bio-
1.
https://www.google.com/search?q=emily+dickinson+biography&oq=emily+dickinson&aqs=chrome.5.69i57j0l5.7054j0j8&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8
Emily Dickinson
Biography
DescriptionEmily Elizabeth Dickinson was an American poet. Dickinson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, into a prominent family with strong ties to its community. Wikipedia
Born: December 10, 1830, Amherst, MA
Died: May 15, 1886, Amherst, MA
Education: Amherst Academy (1840–1847), Mount Holyoke College, Amherst College
Influenced by: Ralph Waldo Emerson, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, William Blake
2. https://www.britannica.com/biography/Emily-Dickinson
Dear Emily, 'the Recluse of Amherst'
In my university days, you burned in me
As a dazzling flame of endless inspiration.
As I sit to write to you, your soul in its depth I see
And it speaks to me, still giving endless motivation.
Your concise and crisp musings, penned years ago,
Continue to light poetic sparks in my soul.
Your poetry is like a whispered secret still aglow
As a recluse, you hid yourself. From the crowd you stole.
Your poems give a glimpse into the workings of your heart
Your thoughts, bold and subtle speaks directly to me.
As I think of you, through my mind, emotions of awe dart.
Staying aloof, you watched nature and animals closely.
In your poems, you elevated the mundane to the sublime.
‘If I could Stop one Heart from Breaking’_
This poem, stays immortal in all time.
Your musings on life and nature are breathtaking.
Dear Emily, you shouldn’t have hidden your light,
Like a lamp under the bushel. Sad, your poems you buried,
Abhorrent of publicity, but posthumously came into limelight.
Now across oceans and tides, they are avidly ferried.
Dear Emily,
In the quiet of Amherst, your words still bloom,
"Hope is the thing with feathers," you penned in your room.
Your verses, like the breeze, traverse time's vast sea,
Yet, dear Emily, a suggestion from me.
Your solitude crafted such delicate lines,
But what if your thoughts had danced in the pines?
Among the living, where laughter is heard,
Would your quill have captured a different word?
"Tell all the truth but tell it slant," you advised,
Yet in life's full extent, what truths might arise?
Step out, dear poet, from your reclusive shade,
And let the world's full spectrum in your ink cascade.
"I dwell in Possibility," you wrote with such grace,
But what if possibility had a different face?
Beyond the confines of your homely retreat,
Could your verses have found a more vibrant beat?
Dear Emily, your legacy, tender and grand,
Forever will echo through time's shifting sand.
Yet, I wonder, if you had fulfilled the world's hue,
What new shades of truth might have blossomed through you?
1. Always aspiring to authentic answers
2. Belief begins, only to end
3. Calls the crow, 'never, to'
4. Drifting like October leaves
5. Falling upwards, death is alive
6. Gargling, bleating, cawing birth
7. Haul the young into the hall
8. Jaded cribs reluctantly nurse
9. Lemon-sour hope gently sweetened
10. May's pastel caress heals yesterday's recall
11. Once, seasons ... now regrown faith
12. Promises to breach, ideas to rebuild
13. Returning the world not unreal, the
14. White Witch of Amherst guiding through
15. Young hearts revive again.
for A Litany of Poetry Devices contest
1. alliteration 2. internal rhyme 3. allusion 4. simile 5. oxymoron 6. onomatopoeia 7. homphone 8. personification 9. metaphor 10. assonance 11. ellipsis 12. antithesis 13. litote 14. metonymy 15. synecdoche
also written in ABC form.
Some master he was grand,
That made flirtations be.
If were she thereof in demand
And adapt into his arms free.
But it was a bother to bore,
Staying private 'twas best.
Wherefore she locked herself indoors
To block out her aggress.
Indoors she would remain,
Forgotten by society.
If aught there one arraign
She'd undergo anxiety.
That woman none did ever see,
In the small town indeed!
She was in Amherst a recluse
The dwellers did concede.
Yet still she had visits,
With one Judge Lord 'twas physical —
If were he implicit
Before his time most critical!
Her life must've been quite doleful,
Upon a daily chore —
Writing poems tho' kept her hopeful
That the folk would adore.
An eccentric, to linger so,
Teasing darkness inside.
Such a woman wore white we know
And from the world she'd hide.
Her behaviour 'twas worst,
When overly she'd agitate.
'twere a notable lady versed,
In an infamous sate —
And despite, if health grant,
Society had a spot dry.
There one would so enchant
If a call to Boston applied.
But her will 'twas elsewhere,
That made O master come to her.
Ah, perhaps he'll go there
And have his day like he prefer.
Tho' her manner it drained,
Bearing despair through a keyhole!
Deathly themes had her pained
For odd reasons thought to control!
In versed writings she mused,
Creating gospel wit and hue.
Until a nervous illness bruised
Her life all the way through —
Now left in deaths fain care,
'Tis nay a tragic melody.
Who misery sought, and was there
Cast into the wild sea.
There was a young poet from Amherst,
Who planned to marry Vince Pankwurst.
They made vows to wed,
But soon Vince was dead,
For the bell of the town hit him head first.
A perfect day,
Somber, quiet, and mellow,
Thinking of one of the greatest,
Poets of all time.
Imagine being in a time,
When no one can see your,
Greatness or your talent.
You never get to see when everyone,
Reads your poems and,
How they idolize you.
Thousands of books are in print,
And there's even a TV show,
All about you called Dickinson.
I wish you could see this,
And so much more.
I sit at a desk much like her's,
With a glass of wine and I,
Write a poem dedicating all,
To the great Emily Dickinson.
Just one day to show Emily,
That she is indeed one of the,
Greatest poets ever.
Tossing and turning,
Dreams rather nightmares,
Of the past when women had,
No rights, women had to marry,
Not loving men and they couldn't,
Buy property or have money.
I finally drift off to sleep,
Only to be awaken by the noise,
Of my neighbors.
Walking into the kitchen,
I see a woman I see a woman,
In a long flowing dress.
She turns around and I see,
EMILY DICKINSON
You know me?
Emily, the whole world knows you.
I show her the book,
"The poems of Emily Dickinson,"
I look at her as I see tears,
Glide down her face.
The world knows of your,
Greatness and your talent.
Things are different here,
What year is this, where are we?
It's 2022 and we're still in Amherst.
I told her about gay rights and,
Women's rights and the TV show.
I just wanted one day to tell,
You what your poems mean to,
Me and all the other poets.
I just wanted to thank you,
For allowing us to see into your,
World and how you opened,
The door for us to write poems.
Now let's go see Amherst,
And your house.
You need some clothes.
She asked me,
Do I get to wear man pants?
I laughed and said Emily,
You can wear anything you want.
Emily what was the year,
When you left? She said 1885.
The year before her death,
Maybe Zeus will let her stay.
A recluse nicknamed ‘nun of Amherst
Wrote rhymes about death, faith and curse
‘Springfield Republican’ cleaved her mind
Where thoughts are joined you will find
‘Hope is the thing with feathers’
Where sweetest sound of gale is heard
She left an indelible mark on most
Who felt her depth and got engrossed
In life she didn’t get much recognition
Her poems surpassed every mission
‘I asked no other thing’
Gave a reason for being
In spite of unfavourable reviews and scepticism
She never let go of life’s schism
She died at a very tender age
And the world still suffers from her passage
Oh, how do I love thee Soup, count the ways
you resuscitate me on many days!
When skies are black and the ground is muddy
I come to the Soup to find my buddies.
The close allegiance of my friends worldwide
brings a smile to my lips, tears I can't hide.
You are there, all of you, I'm not alone
if I'm sad many ring me by the phone!
What more could one ask on the internet
but company of those who are their get.
http://www3.amherst.edu/~rjyanco94/literature/elizabethbarrettbrowning/poems/sonnetsfromtheportuguese/howdoilovetheeletmecounttheways.html
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Date: 1/22/12
*Carol who is the framework from whose kind heart all
recieve support!
A birds joyous flutter of early May grand,
bulbs pop yellow heads, from green woken land.
Crickets and peepers work second shift chatter,
as a voice out of Boston, announces next batter.
It`s Springtime in Amherst, Smith girls in light sweaters.
Where Emily penned hope, as the thing with feathers.
On the day you announced we would closed
no one truly understood
now here we stand tried and true
together we will all push through
we'll teach you to mess with us
the Vixen girls of Sweet Briar U.S.
#savesweetbriar
we will reign against financial rust
we will stand tall for the
strong girl in all of us
so save our school
help us out
we found or voice we found our school
we'll teach you how to mess with socialites
and our iron clad wills
you taught us to think to dream
now we're strong a Vixen to one and all
save our school, help Amherst out
Sweet Briar College shall live I have not doubt
we'll teach you to mess with Vixens
Please just help us win
pledge some money
let the school win
so little girls can come when I'm old
Please this is my poetry plead
WEATHER FUN
You can’t control weather at the Pole;
But Thule as a rule is always quite cool.
You’ll hate Scottish weather - it’s never really hottish,
And the climate in Chile you’ll always find chilly.
It’s true - Spanish snow can soon vanish;
But in Spain, rain stays (- mainly in the plain.)
Find mists in Turkey - they may be sometimes murky.
Seek the dampness of mireland - it’s famous in Ireland.
But your worst event may be to have spent Lent in Kent;
To have been cursed first with thirst in Amherst;
Or having to meet sleet in the street in Crete;
Or worse yet, to abet a debt in wet Tibet.
Alone, You lived, my dearest friend--
all the days were seldom kind,
the world, to you seemed blind
yet in your works I do find,
sincerity end to end.
You gave us pauses--stresses too--
lines that questioned a callous life,
verses, unfinished, that are rife
with similes like a sharpened knife,
even your lies are true.
The Brain is wider than the Sky
to quote you in the least,
wondrous death would be your feast
the eternal fall of man and beast,
your words can never die.
You and I, we are the same--
shunning the dullness of prose
a heavy heart that no one knows,
existence connected through our woes,
we are both to blame.
Your tone, does not confuse me,
your titles, truly, never miss
you seal each line with a kiss
faith, bleeds in restful bliss--
Tell the horseman that we'll be,
two in the carriage towards eternity.
...Duncan pulled free and sprinted, half-mad,
tears streaming as he made his retreat,
he’d never imagined hell this bad,
and didn’t much care if they were beat.
All he desired was to get clear,
to run himself far away from here,
but as the boy ran his panicked sprint,
lines of provincials marched up to him,
a commander grabbed him, smacked him hard,
said, “Come on, lad, we’ll yet win the day!”
Forced him to march back into the fray,
but as before, they didn’t get far.
How Duncan survived this next attack,
he didn’t know, nor how he got back…
’Twas a beaten army marching south
along the wooded shores of Lake George,
there great advance turned into a rout,
without getting in sight of the fort,
the French would still control Lake Champlain,
and Duncan asked if he was still sane…
One thousand British casualties,
due to that half-wit Abercrombie,
Duncan wintered down at Fort Edward,
and troubling thoughts came to his mind,
he tried, but no reason could he find
for putting all those lives to the sword,
so that a king he’d never chosen
could claim more land, and taxes from men.
Was that what his life would amount to?
Was this the reason he’d come to be?
He did not see how it could be true
that he lived to fluff some king’s glory.
Was that the same reason the French fought?
For the power that their Louis sought?
How could it be so many were damned
to feed the vanity of one man?
The pride he’d felt for his soldiering,
blew away like thin clouds in a breeze,
in not much could poor Duncan believe,
all certainties of old now fading.
He wanted to run away from this hurt,
but knew he would hang if he dared desert.
The next year Abercrombie was gone,
and Lord Amherst had taken control,
his leadership promised a new down,
he’d seized Louisburg, was much extolled.
In July his army did sail north,
the French had only a meager force,
so small that they left their forward lines,
and fled to the fort to buy some time.
Amherst did not make the same mistake,
he took his time, and set up a siege,
the French knew they would not be relieved,
so they fled north by Champlain’s great lake,
but not before a great flash was seen,
they blew up their powder magazine!
CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
Late September holds onto the summer,
like that promise you made,
—you can never forget
Late September holds onto the summer,
as shadows fall distant,
—and memory regrets
(Train: Amherst Massachusetts- September, 2013)