Posts tagged ‘emily dickinson’

Weekly Photo Challenge: Orange

Cliff Sunrise
Lizard Crabs Sea Lions

Click any picture to enlarge

Galapagos Islands in Ecuador is one place that I know Emily Dickinson would have loved to visit, most especially in the fall when it’s resplendent in hues of orange. Could she have made the accompanying poem better? I wonder.

I’ll tell you how the sun rose,–
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.
The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”
But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while
Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.

Emily Dickinson


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March 6, 2015 at 4:07 pm 14 comments

weekly photo challenge: yellow

philippine sunset

location: dinadiawan, dipaculao, aurora, philippines

Nature rarer uses Yellow
Than another Hue.
Saves she all of that for Sunsets
Prodigal of Blue

Spending Scarlet, like a Woman
Yellow she affords
Only scantly and selectly
Like a Lover’s Words.

– Emily Dickinson


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December 19, 2014 at 6:51 pm 9 comments

eva and 65 roses

originally posted apr 29, 2010, updated sep 9, 2012

65 red roses photo

we blog therefore we are. a blog is the modern version of emily dickinson’s letter to the world. to some of us, it has become a medium for expressing the other part of us. it’s the private one that we keep away from family and friends for fear of being misunderstood. through our blog, we write our thoughts like a prisoner tapping the wall hoping that there’s someone else on the other side. oftentimes, our words are met with silence. but sometimes, we find a connection. somebody reads our post, then another, and another, until the chain grows and achieves a life of its own.

eva dien brine marvoort (1984-2010) was in the advance stage of cystic fibrosis when she started her blog in 2006. she named it 65 red roses after ’65 roses’ which is how children who have the disease are taught to say it because the words are much easier for them to pronounce.

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September 9, 2012 at 11:30 am 11 comments

Somewhere I Have Never Travelled

There was a time in my life when I dreamed of becoming a poet. But it wasn’t meant to be. In my senior year in high school, I was designated the class clown. It followed that when nobody thought of you seriously, you couldn’t be a poet. It was also by that time that I started questioning my motivation. I realized that all I wanted was to impress the girls. Of course, it wasn’t good enough to win favors from the gods.

Still I persisted in the pursuit. After a couple years, I finally abandoned the idea. No love lost. I found girls weren’t interested in my poetry, anyway.

You must have heard the saying that those who can’t write, teach. In my case, I can’t teach either. so, what that leaves me? I can, at least, read and appreciate a great poem when I see one.

In one of her letters, Emily Dickinson said, “If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.” Somewhere I Have Never Travelled by e.e. cummings falls under this category. This is one poem I’d love to have written myself. It could well be one of the best love poems ever written.

somewhere i have never travelled
by e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

In this poem, the poet speaks beautifully of his love for a woman. He thinks of her as frail but at the same time he extols the power within that fragility. She can either open him (give him life as “you open always petal by petal myself as Springs opens … her first rose”) or close him (kill him slowly “as the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending”).

Every time I read this poem I remember my first love. Such is the power of a great poem.

May 22, 2009 at 1:06 pm 2 comments

We Are Born To Fail

It was Emily Dickinson who once quipped that “Success is counted sweetest by those who never succeed”. As to what prompted her to say that I don’t know, but she may have a point. Success is rare as winning in the lottery. By nature, we are born to fail.

If failure isn’t in our genes, then why is it so easy to fail? All you have to do is sit in your favorite couch and do nothing and it will come to you like a bolt of lightning. If you want to succeed, however, you have to stand up and defy the laws of gravity.

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March 21, 2009 at 10:29 am 19 comments

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i have hated the words and i have loved them, and i hope i have made them right.

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