Dickinson does not inch toward the cosmic.

...this little poem starts with trying to look into a quiet, lush landscape painting and wish yourself there.

Many have used poetry to generate lingering, meditative essays, but Dickinson is in rare form with "Experience is the Angled Road."

Dickinson's darkly comic opening should rankle us. Really? You can wade grief?

There is no way to talk about being American without confronting Emily Dickinson.

Sometimes I think about doing. Perhaps there is a meaning to doing itself, a meaning that holds true for all actions.

I do think there's a strong relation between hope and anxiety...

What shattering, colossal lines: "A nearness to Tremendousness – / An Agony procures."

I want to begin 2024 by talking about Dickinson's "There's a certain Slant of light."

This Thanksgiving, I forgot to count my blessings.

I never thought I'd see a world dominated this thoroughly by big babies who have the magic power of making the unacceptable seem rational.

Letters are not easy. I know this, but I write bad ones anyway.

...the evening would not be the evening, nor the day the day, if we did not labor and require rest.

...genuine expressions of identity are nothing less than poetry.

There are days of disappointment.

Dickinson, even when choosing her own society, does not fail to remind herself of the cost of company, a cost not unlike isolation...

When I encounter the sentence "Much Madness is divinest Sense," I think back to middle school and high school.

I want Dickinson's confidence, though I can't help but think it hubris.

Dickinson says "To fight aloud is very brave," and "brave" catches me unguarded. I don't think I've ever been "brave."

...your literal self is on full display during a move.

The outstanding question of Dickinson's "The difference between Despair / and Fear" is why the difference has to be known.

Dickinson is practical, not obsessed with sounding practical.

When you create something entirely your own, something no one else attends to, you could forget who you were.

I am so, so jealous of Dickinson's confidence in this poem.

If geometry, the shapes which compose everyday life, is witchcraft, then a little more awareness of what helps is actually a minor miracle.