Found Love, Found Poetry; Emily Dickinson & Susan Huntington

There is a myth perpetuated by the editors and publishers of Emily Dickinson; a women in white, distant and reclusive, locked in her attic, lovelorn and slightly mad. Her poetry was edited to encourage this line of thought, as were the forwards published by those printing her work. But when one settles into her letters, one finds a vibrant, humorous women. She complains of the expectations of womanhood, the need to sew and clean and be presentable. She admits to finding excuses to not attend church, and talks of her wandering thoughts during the sermons she does attend. Her language is full of nature and emotion; she speaks of storms inside and out, of tears of frustration and misery, but also of robin song and violets, green grass and heat lightening.

“but come with me this morning to the church within our hearts, where the bells are always ringing, and the preacher whose name is Love – shall intercede there for us! “ (February, 1852)

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Found Love, Found Poetry; Oscar Wilde & Lord Alfred Douglas

November is a challenging month for me, while others wade into NaNoWriMo, my progress grinds to a halt- the holidays mean five days a week of an incredibly busy job; there are days where I’m so tired I’m falling asleep by six thirty. I have birthdays of family members, multiple Thanksgivings, and no time off. December proves to be little better.

So with that in mind I’ve set aside my larger writing projects in favor of lighter fair. Vignettes, flash fiction, and poetry, both found and original. We start ourselves of with a project I’m working on where I build poetry from the letters and essays of famous authors, with a focus on those who either confirmed or implied their homosexuality or bisexuality.

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Home at Sea

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(Originally written 11-4-16, in Fort Bragg, California)

It’s quiet before dawn, the world illuminated with a tired half-light. I sit beside the window of our hotel room, my husband asleep in the shadows beyond There’s a fire beside me, and the Pacific roars below the cliffs only yards from our balcony.

The sun still slumbers, the air a cold grey, but I can see the white caps of an angry surf. Last night the waves were towers, bridges; arching twenty feet into the sky to crash into the California coast, sending spray rocketing skyward before a sunset of topaz and rose.

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Change.

Why does it feel as though the light is dimming, when it should have flared it’s brightest?

Why does it feel as though we’ve been betrayed? We step out into a world unchanged, and yet… I feel as though we’re on the edge of a precipice. The apathy of an older generation will kill us all, the apathy of our parents generation, their ignorance, their mistrust. They never used to have to care about what lay beyond the edge of their narrow sight, it seems they were raised on backyard baseball games and shooting tin cans, riding their ten-speed to a corner market that is kinder to them in their memories then it ever really was.

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