Celebrating the New Mystery Series Featuring Emily Dickinson Written by Amanda Flower - With Words by Dickinson!

 

I have just started reading this first in series novel by Amanda Flower and already I am enthralled. Of course, I've enjoyed the author and I love mysteries, but it was neither of these reasons that has drawn me in. 

It is Flower's extraordinary ability to describe a woman we will never meet, although we may have seen a picture, with her every word... I don't think I have ever experienced such a thrilling awareness of another woman. Having a character come alive as if I were in the same room, walking with her, or, even, talking with her is an enchanting experience. One which made me want to actually read her words! And share them!

Of course as a mystery, we have a murder. At that time, at least for the lower class, grief was not permitted--at least during work hours. So, for the sake of the young girl who lost her brother and could not mourn, I have honored her brother--and perhaps, those who grieve for the young teacher, who this week, was killed by a 6-year-old first grader... or those in your own life...

I Measure Every Grief I Meet

I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, eyes – 
I wonder if It weighs like Mine – 
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long – 
Or did it just begin – 
I could not tell the Date of Mine – 
It feels so old a pain – 

I wonder if it hurts to live – 
And if They have to try – 
And whether – could They choose between – 
It would not be – to die – 

I note that Some – gone patient long – 
At length, renew their smile –  
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil – 

I wonder if when Years have piled –  
Some Thousands – on the Harm –  
That hurt them early – such a lapse
Could give them any Balm –  

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve – 
Enlightened to a larger Pain –  
In Contrast with the Love –  

The Grieved – are many – I am told –  
There is the various Cause –  
Death – is but one – and comes but once –  
And only nails the eyes –  

There's Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –  
A sort they call "Despair" –  
There's Banishment from native Eyes – 
In sight of Native Air –  

And though I may not guess the kind –  
Correctly – yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary –  

To note the fashions – of the Cross –  
And how they're mostly worn –  
Still fascinated to presume
That Some – are like my own – 

--Emily Dickinson

The Savior Must Have Been

A Docile Gentleman

The Savior must have been

A docile Gentleman—

To come so far so cold a Day

For little Fellowmen—

The Road to Bethlehem

Since He and I were Boys

Was leveled, but for that 'twould be

A rugged Billion Miles—

                                              --Emily Dickinson

Poems are acts of attention—they can wake us up to the here and now. 

—B. K. Fischer, Poet Laureate of Westchester County

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