Postcard verso:

To: Emily Dickinson

“I have never
started a poem
whose end I knew.
Writing a poem
is discovering.”

-Robert
Frost 

From: Lily Chandley

JCHS 2021

Postcard verso:

Dear Emily,
     I believe you are still around,
in some form. I’ve heard your
voice. You have been quite an
inspiration! I like to imagine
you having a conversation
with Vincent Van Gogh about
posthumous fame.
     When I visit Japan next
March I will be taking a small
book of your poems with me.
                           I think you will
like Japan. With admiration, Carol Rosenfeld

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Veronica Corpuz, Pittsburgh, PA.

Dear Emily,

When I am given the assignment to study a poem,
I study you and the lines of your heart
are cross-stitched into mine: To die
takes just a little while / They say
it doesn’t hurt. This poem lives in me
46 years and counting. I bring you
to the party on the last night in
the Valley. The poets gather around
the fire. I lift you into the circle’s
center — thinking of C.D., thinking
of Sharon under your bed, thinking
of my friends who sit beyond my closed eyes.
I forget the line: The absent mystic creature
What do you call a gathering of such beings?
Heaven, maybe. Yes, this is Heaven:
a brood of absent mystic creatures.
                                                                  Love, Veronica

Postcard verso:

Kris Marnon.

Message:
Happy Birthay Emily.
I know you wear your
wings.

Postcard face:

The White Rose

Solitary she sits
Scratching paper with pen
Preconceiving Gilligan
with a paradoxical spin

Writing verse by verse
never leaving ‘herst
heads of horses neighing ’bout
if Faith and and science averse

My heart is not yet broke
so to the bog we go
listen to the bird-song cry
From the feathers floating by

And if I were to close
I guess I would suppose
that we should thank Miss Dickinson
And not just for her prose

Postcard verso:

Caleb Shultz

Postcard face:

fame as a bee.
it has a song
it has a sting
ah, too, it has a
wing

Postcard verso:

To Emily
from Jordan

I loved Fame as a bee.
by the way I say
all of your poetry
should have bin published.
but every one knows
that your the
best.

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the bees buzz louder,
the trees grow taller,
the flowers smell sweeter
when you see the
world like Emily.
the wind carries your
poems from your heart
to ours, and there
they shall stay forevermore.

Postcard verso, page left:

Dear Emily,

Here’s a letter to you they
can’t erase. They can’t cut
words out of it. Burn it.
Censor it. They do that to
girls like us.

But I know you. You’re just
like me. All I can think is,
how dare they call you dark,
reclusive, morbid? You’re raw +
real. You know what’s up. And now
they’ll never erase your love.
  I’ll make sure of that.

Postcard verso, page right:

Abby,
Julia”

Emily Dickinson
“I need her – I must have
her, oh, give her to me!”

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DREAM HOUSES

Tree houses of the Sky, perhaps,
these homes where dreamers dwell.
Breezes blow a lucent blue
passed walls of air our hosts pass through.

And if we hear the floorboards creak
from luminescent, cold bare feet,
and if the floor itself slant up
to reach the cupboard’s Common Cup,

no reason, law, or fear dictates
that one must move or sell.
We are the framers of this House
in which our tenant dreamers dwell

Happy Birthday, Emily,
Jesse Mavro Diamond

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                      8 Nov 2019
Dear Miss Dickinson,
     Your work is as sacred to me
as the bible is to some – I consult
you regularly. I’ve been “teaching”
you for 25 years, which sometimes
feels a privilege sometimes a
profanation,
                       Your scholar —
                       Gloria (last name?)