Got up with sun, finally - 6:18 - ate last two cuts of Easter bread, and finished undated poems of Emily Dickinson. Now I've read them all - all they know about - all seventeen hundred eighty-nine of them. Many of them several times, several of them many times. I like how her lines play through my thoughts. Certainly more productive and pleasurable than many other lies and lines running wearily through. What if our thoughts were all the very best poetry lines? But "Experiment escorts us last" Emily says, and we are doomed to think our own thoughts, some of the time.
Took a walk. Glad for my wool hat and scarf but the edge of cold giving way, even at this early hour, to sweet soft air. Practiced walking down my dirt road with eyes closed, feeling packed clay springy-ness underfoot and warm blood-lit eyelids. Good to remove a whole radius of sensory information, and let in the other channel. Can't begin to say what that is, but like Luke Skywalker practicing with his light saber, or flying in to blow up the Death Star, it's helpful to put the blinders on. The bombardment of irrelevant information is ceaseless - and an aggressive bug-eyed quest makes me miss what's on the end of my nose. Pull back! Pull up! Call off the search!
In the end - Emily - I must escort myself. This indent of elbow is all.
This is all Emily had to say of a contemporary, Walt Whitman - now often named together as THE two most important American poets - "You speak of Mr Whitman - I never read his Book - but was told that he was disgraceful -"