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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write. Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground. Kiya's gift. I love it!
Off the Cuff / My Other Journal
#799929 added December 10, 2013 at 6:38pm
Restrictions: None
Happy Birthday, Emily Dickinson!
Had Emily Dickinson lived, she'd be celebrating her 183rd birthday, today.

And I bet the medical or scientific professions and the media would take her apart inch by inch. I can just imagine some of the dialogue:


"She's suffering from some serious depression. Imagine shutting out people from her life!"

"But her work shows she's intelligent. She must be different. Should we suspect her? Maybe the government should sent a drone to monitor her."

"A woman like that shouldn't be left too alone to fend for herself."

"There is something wrong with her. I wonder if she's an autistic savant?

"She is rather successful though, wouldn't you say?"

"Could be, but she still may have Asperger's syndrome or Rett syndrome or PDD-NOS, or some disintegrative disorder."

"We should put her on Thorazine or Prozax or Paxil or Cymbalta or...or...something."



But I'm so glad she lived...And Thank God and the Poetry Muse that she left behind "a few crumbs" of herself.

"Hope is the thing with feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me."



And who can forget the envelope poems scribbled on the backs of the envelopes?

β€œIn this short Life
 that only-merely-lasts an hour
How much – how  little – is 
within our 
 power.”


December 10--Happy Birthday, Emily Dickinson!



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