Emily Dickinson in her words: What a seizure is like

I find this amazing, this maybe to just my own understanding
But Emily's poetry belittles what I write
For hers is a vision so pure yet unconventional


Her poetry--a creation of the mind, her illusions and vivid images, neural,
true feelings of the heart, pure and possibly unaffected by the outside world




While mine are created from reality...the absurd, the harsh, the cruel and unsightly, full of angst, bitterness, striving for hope and recovery.










Here is another one, c. 1876.534 (1581)

The farthest Thunder that I heard
Was nearer than the Sky
And rumbles still, though torrid Noons
Have lain their missiles by--
The Lightning that preceded it
Struck no one but myself--
But I would not exchange the Bolt
For all the rest of Life--
Indebtedness to Oxygen
The Happy may repay,
But not the obligation
To Electricity--
It founds the Homes and decks the Days
And every clamor bright
Is but the gleam concomitant
Of that waylaying Light-
The Thought is quiet as a Flake--


A Crash without a Sound,
How Life's reverberation
Its Explanation found--


end