Poetry of loss.

I’ve been thinking about and reading poetry again these days, something I used to do regularly “back in the day.”  I’ve shared some favorite poems here before:

in-Just
Fog
The Highwayman
When the Frost is on the Punkin
A Ballad of China
And don’t forget Patterns.

Emily Dickinson is another poet, like e.e. cummings,  with a unique style of presentation.  This poem is one I enjoyed in those days when I was distraught by disappointment in love or like.  See what you think.

I got so I could take his name
Emily Dickinson

I got so I could take his name—
Without—Tremendous gain—
That Stop-sensation—on my Soul—
And Thunder—in the Room—

I got so I could walk across
That Angle in the floor,
Where he turned so, and I turned—how—
And all our Sinew tore—

I got so I could stir the Box—
In which his letters grew
Without that forcing, in my breath—
As Staples—driven through—

Could dimly recollect a Grace—
I think, they call it “God”—
Renowned to ease Extremity—
When Formula, had failed—

And shape my Hands—
Petition’s way,
Tho’ ignorant of a word
That Ordination—utters—

My Business, with the Cloud,
If any Power behind it, be,
Not subject to Despair—
It care, in some remoter way,
For so minute affair
As Misery—
Itself, too vast, for interrupting—more—