I’m rereading Emily Dickinson’s complete works. Her poetry speaks to me because she never intended to have a wider audience. She wrote for herself and those closest to her, reclusive thinker that she was. And brilliant, oh so brilliant and incisive. So, once again I have waded into her penned thoughts, more interested in the tapestry of her interwoven ideas, than in archaic turns of phrase.
It further inspires me to write poetry and to withhold any sort of publishing just yet, or more likely ever. Without the constraints of who might be offended, put off, or encouraged to self-righteous bombast, I write from the heart within a tangled menagerie of disparate disciplines within which I perceive synergistic complementarity, including but not limited to philology, text criticism, literature, physics, astronomy, mathematics, ethnography, Christian faith and spirituality, and so on.
In other words, I write about what interests me, seeking to explore meaning within the mundane, and to find interesting justapositions from widely divergent disciplines.
It’s the sort of thing that wouldn’t sell on the popular market, or likely even the obscure. Probably for the best. Wouldn’t want to offend the politically correct power brokers of religion, publishing gatekeepers, and state-run media.
So back I go. Into obscurity. It’s okay. I like it this way. I have friends here. Together we are weaving a poetic tapestry in the rhythms of daily living.