I want to like Dickinson. I really do. I mean, I’m named
after her (along with Emily Bronte). But if I’m honest, I have to say that I find
most of her poems a little bit dull. That’s not to say I dislike her, not by
any means. I don’t mind reading her poems. I just wouldn’t say that I actively
like her.
I suspect that a big part of my difficulty stems from her
use of common meter. After reading the same form repeatedly, my mind kinda
starts to glaze over. Even if I think I like what she’s saying (for example, in
the poem that starts “I’m nobody, who are you?”) the way she says it doesn’t usually
captivate me. Ones like “Ample make this bed,” “Heaven is what I cannot reach,”
and “Wild Nights,” for example. I find myself thinking, yeah, yeah, okay, when
is something interesting going to happen?
There’s something strange going on with ones like “Hope is a
thing with feathers” and “Pain has an element of blank.” I think they’re very apt
observations, and I agree with the sentiments; I also think it’s really
interesting how she writes them with very little (if any) personal connection,
like she’s some kind of ubiquitous outside observer. However, I don’t think
they affect me all that strongly, and I think it’s because of that lack of personal
connection. They’re such broad statements, disconnected from individual human
experience, that I can’t really relate. And I think I’m starting to realize
that one of the things that really draws me in to poetry is the ability to
relate on a personal level, whether through sympathy or empathy. These poems make me think more than feel, and I want them to make me do both.
Oddly enough (and not related to either sympathy or empathy),
the Dickinson poems that I liked the most were the ones about death—particularly
the two in which the speaker dies and yet keeps on speaking. I think I liked
them because they threw me for a loop. They were so weird that they finally
succeeded in captivating me where the other ones had failed. It’s like, you’re
reading along, and it’s poetry like usual, and then all of a sudden, wait is
this person who’s talking to me actually dead?! That’s fascinating. It makes me
uncomfortable and curious all at the same time.
I liked the one that starts “I heard a fly buzz when I died”
because of the uniqueness of its perspective. Maybe I’m making things up, but
I’m pretty sure I’ve never read anything in which the speaker actually died.
Usually it’s an out-of-body experience and the person end up coming back
somehow. Reading that poem kind of makes me want to sit up straighter and pay
attention. I also liked the one that starts “Because I could not stop for
Death” because of its perspective. The personification of Death appealed to me
as well. Anything that turns Death into a personified being will typically
interest me, because I find the idea so absolutely intriguing. There’s
something about that Grim Reaper image that really grips my imagination.
So, my opinion on Dickinson: I don’t hate her, but I don’t love
her either, so I’m gonna go with neutral.
