With pain in every word, poems of Emily Dickinson are surreal

There is pain, struggle and truth in her writing that will allure you

A 19th-century American poet, Emily Elizabeth Dickinson is regarded as one of the most important figures in the world of American poetry who lived from 1830–1886. Born into a prominent family in Amherst, Massachusetts, Dickinson was known during her life for her artistic instincts. Dickinson’s work proves that she challenged the existing definitions of poetry and like writers, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, and Walt Whitman, experimented with expression to free it from conventional restraints. And like the writer’s Charlotte Brontë and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Dickinson designed a new type of persona for the first person representation.

Her work comprises short lines, lack titles – therefore the first line of the poem makes for the title – slant rhyme and unconventional punctuation. The themes of most of her poems are centered on death, immortality and also explore aesthetics, society, nature, and spirituality. While Dickinson was a prolific writer, her only publications during her lifetime were 10 of her nearly 1,800 poems, and one letter. However, the poems published then were significantly edited to fit the conventional poetic rules as her poems were unique for her era. Here are a few poems of Dickinson that is worth reading through.

A Bee his burnished Carriage
Drove boldly to a Rose—
Combinedly alighting—
Himself — his Carriage was —
The Rose received his visit
With frank tranquility
Withholding not a Crescent
To his Cupidity —
Their Moment consummated —
Remained for him — to flee —
Remained for her — of rapture
But the humility.

A Letter is a joy of Earth—
It is denied the Gods—

A Secret told—
Ceases to be a Secret—then—
A Secret—kept—
That—can appal but One—

A slash of Blue—
A sweep of Gray—
Some scarlet patches on the way,
Compose an Evening Sky—
A little purple—slipped between—
Some Ruby Trousers hurried on—
A Wave of Gold—
A Bank of Day—
This just makes out the Morning Sky.

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

A House upon the Height—
That Wagon never reached—
No Dead, were ever carried down—
No Peddler’s Cart—approached—

Whose Chimney never smoked—
Whose Windows—Night and Morn—
Caught Sunrise first—and Sunset—last—
Then—held an Empty Pane—

Whose fate—Conjecture knew—
No other neighbor—did—
And what it was—we never lisped—
Because He—never told—

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