April 21st

Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day, as deemed by the NYC Department of Education. This is why I love NYC. [grins]

Perhaps one of my favourite things about Emily Dickinson's poetry is the seemingly inconsistent placement of capital letters. But because all the academic cunts out there refuse to recognise her "random" capitalisation as part of her poetry, it's rare to find a website with the correct denotations.

Fuckers.

I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.

And perhaps my favourite (a holdover from my Christian days):

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 us all so warm.

This poem, I hope, provides for you order to my seemingly chaotic capitalisation:

Nature is what we see,
The Hill, the Afternoon—
Squirrel, Eclipse, the Bumble-bee,
Nay—Nature is Heaven.

Nature is what we hear,
The Bobolink, the Sea—
Thunder, the Cricket—
Nay,—Nature is Harmony.

Nature is what we know
But have no art to say,
So impotent our wisdom is
To Her simplicity.

What's in YOUR pocket?