In honor of National Poetry Month
The following poem has always freaked me out. I know what she means and yet the putting of those moments of dread into words like this …
Whistling past a graveyard. By naming it, she summons it.
There’s a certain Slant of light (258)
by Emily Dickinson
There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons–
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes–
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us–
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are–
None may teach it–Any–
‘Tis the Seal Despair–
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air–
When it comes, the Landscape listens–
Shadows–hold their breath–
When it goes, ’tis like the Distance
On the look of Death–
