Poem of the Week: “When I Dreamed I Was Emily Dickinson”

There were several pieces still I would have liked to share, but National Poetry Month is coming to a close . . . so which poem would best tie things up?

This little ditty seemed to fit the bill. Years ago, listening to former Poet Laureate of Florida (and my former college professor) Peter Meinke speak at the community college I’d attended, a chance phrase he dropped set off a spark in my head. I’ve long since forgotten what it was, but it took shape in the verse below. Neither profound nor autobiographical, it always gives me a bit of a smile—and I bet a lot of poets can relate.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this month’s offerings, and that the beautifully mysterious gift of poetry will in some way play a role in your life in the days ahead.

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WHEN I DREAMED I WAS EMILY DICKINSON

I took a summer garretquill pen shadow
with a winter chill
and wore black clothes
that stained my pores with ink

Not inspiration

Which, dank upon the page,
left blots upon my thoughts
of what a poet ought to be:

The muse that spoke to Emily
does not yet speak to me.

 

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From The Soundness of Broken Pieces, © 2012 by Lucie M. Winborne. Available from Middle Island Press.