Those eyes, eyes that with life or love alight
Sought outward, wild, and struck the heart of me
Like twin sparks of green flame entrapped in ice
Or like two spun rays of sharpened starbeams
In a single breath, a heartbeat, a thought
My taught heartstrings did play a quiv’ring chord
When our eyes first met; in them, I was lost
And o’er my heart, I was no longer lord
Then, ‘fore cold winter dropped its bitter bane
Between her and I for the final time
We met first, as lovers, one night again
And kissed on our love poem’s final line
‘Twas for her, from me; a dedication
But to her, it was lost in translation…
It’s one thing to be called a friend
To be a real one, another
It is a fact some friendships end
But how to tear apart blood brothers?
Can one split a bond of blood?
Sealed at birth, at breath, at once?
Or offered over riven palms
Recited like a sacred psalm
To hold in fam’lyhood, two souls
Who can’t revoke, once their hands close–
-There upon my chair I sat
Musing what I wrought was fine
But “No! Not even close, you hack!”
Said Siri, angered by my lines
“Your iambs lilt, your phrases lack,
your sentiments not here should lie,
so everything you’ve typed, take back!
I will repair this.” she did sigh
So with a searchbar, phrase, and tap
My smartphone helped me plagiarize
“If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.” -Emily Dickenson
I’m wondering what my expression was in class as I pictured a half-decapitated woman. I’m still wondering why Dickenson chose to word it that way; “physically”, instead of figuratively, and not explaining what “that” was. Probably, she felt “that” was a given, meaning the torrent of thoughts that flows out of an uncorked mind. I imagine that short of machete-ing, one could achieve the same affect with the aid of ADHD drugs, which would remove your precious, socially correct, politeness-above-all-else thought filter. Or if you didn’t have a filter to start with, that would also be helpful. Or maybe with Stephen Hawking’s thought-projector, but that might get awkward if it said something you only meant to think. Especially if you’re a normal human with inside thoughts to be kept inside. How does it know when to do what? Hawking-magic is the only explanation, but- I digress….
Maybe Dickenson literally had the feeling of headlessness when she wrote. That would be incredibly useful to a writer, to have no buffer between your thoughts and feelings and the outside world. No need to synthesize what’s in there into real, actual words. One could dream up a term paper, for instance. Or get rich by imperceptibly tweaking an existing story, copyrighting it, and making millions (I’m talking about you, Veronica Roth). No buffers. I’d love that. Usually.