English poetry

Maybe, poetry is something light, indeed. Somewhere else. Looking for ten pieces of poetry that would not be MORBID (like the ones we chose for the hermeneutics book [this does tell sth. about our state of mind..] took me half a day.

I decided I liked Robert Frost. Emily Dickinson gave me the creeps, and even now, it is impossible for me to get rid of her voice [dead] in the small of my brain. Ted Hughes will haunt me for months, nightly. Dylan Thomas has betrayed my friend and gone to bed with me. And all the rest of them, all great, all magnificent… All morbid. Mostly. So, I chose Wordsworth’s Daffodils. Will try to work it out in my own experience.

Just for an insight… What was it I wanted to say? Yeah, Dickinson again.

A THOUGHT went up my mind to-day
That I have had before,
But did not finish,—some way back,
I could not fix the year,

Nor where it went, nor why it came
The second time to me,
Nor definitely what it was,
Have I the art to say.

But somewhere in my soul, I know
I ’ve met the thing before;
It just reminded me—’t was all—
And came my way no more.

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