Gather round the fire, pull up a chair, and get New England cozy. It's time for a poetry reading from that paragon of punctuation, Emily Dickhead. All the poems found in the anthology are here, and one more is at Phil's Poetry Project.
Remember how "My pal Death brought the Beer"? Well, it seems he has a little drinking-and-driving problem . . .
Although I could not stop for Death --
He did not stop for me --
For he had held but just three Beers --
And no Rationality.
We quickly drove -- He knew but haste
And I had put away
My inhibitions drunkly too,
For Illegality --
We passed a School, and a Cop strove
To chase us -- in his Car --
We passed a great big Semi-Truck --
We passed him on the Right --
For no-one -- Could quite pass Us --
Then I grew quivering and chill --
For there was a Freight Train --
At the Bottom -- of the Hill --
He paused before the Brake pedal --
And then stomped on the Gas --
And as the train grew nearer, laughed --
He thought that -- we could Pass --
Since then -- 'tis Centuries -- and yet
As painful as the Day
I first surmised that no Freight Trains
Will give up Right of Way --
�
This is my letter to the World
That never wrote to Me --
They never sent me any News --
And fear I'm too Deathly
Because in this damn Attic
It is too Dark to see --
Also, I can't -- Read -- or Write --
Judging by -- my Poetry
�
Great Books is counted greatest
By those who ne'er read.
To re-read Mists of Avalon
Makes you twisted indeed.
Not one of all the blue-plaid Host
Who read the Book today
Can tell the definition
Of a metonymy.
But those defeated -- failing --
Despite the show and tell
Are at least familiar
With Dante's fiery Hell!
�
My Locker in the Hall
At Morning or at Lunch
Is next to the bathroom door
So that my Head goes Crunch --
Whene'er the Door swings Out
To get me in the Face
(Which I won't want to use again
'Cause it's all o'er the Place.)
�
"Chem is the thing with beakers --
That perches in Room 8 --
And memorizes elements --
And writes up labs -- quite late --
And two hours -- in the Room -- is long --
And aprons don't look good --
While flames come from the Bunsen Burner
Under the fume hood --
I've seen the books take o'er --
My locker in the Hall --
And in May looms the AP,
Why'd I sign up -- at All?
The Soul declares her own Maniacy --
While -- slamming Doors --
Inner voices speak Quietly --
She laughs at the floor --
Unbound -- she runs �round Nude -- pausing --
At some low Gate --
Unbound -- a Child who�s kneeling --
Screams at the Sight --
In her head -- the unbid compulsion --
Eat One --
From -- a quiet Sunday congregation --
When Alone --
I thought I was a Moose -- until I Died --
With antlers -- thick and long --
And dark Brown fur -- to warm my Hide --
I towering -- tall and Strong --
But the gentle -- hand of Death --
Did still my Cries -- of "Gnrrrrgh" --
It stopped the coursing -- of my Breath --
Then I realized -- something Absurd --
Perhaps I had Not -- been that Moose,
That Moose -- I thought I was --
Perhaps instead -- I'd been a Goose,
To Think myself -- covered in Fuzz --
What I had been -- I do not Know --
'Tis Truly quite -- Mysterious --
Human? Duck? -- Monkey? Crow? --
Or maybe I'm just -- Delerious --