As a general rule, I do not like poetry. I am not easily charmed by it. Therefore, it is remarkable that for the past two or three days, I simply cannot stop thinking about this poem. I first heard it in December in the car on the way to North Carolina with Mana and Pop; we listened to four hours of lectures about Emily Dickinson. I find it eerie. It is striking.
And all the Dead, lie down --
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.
It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos -- crawl --
Nor Fire -- for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool --
And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine --
As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And 'twas like Midnight, some -
When everything that ticked -- has stopped --
And Space stares all around --
Or Grisly frosts -- first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground --
But, most, like Chaos - Stopless -- cool --
Without a Chance, or Spar --
Or even a Report of Land --
To justify -- Despair.
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