Monday, November 27, 2006


I named my first child after Emily Dickinson, whose poetry is so sublime, multileveled, and dare I say quaint, that it serves as a life-long treasure, a "love." While in the hospital in October, I received a copy of her Complete Poems (i.e., all 1775 poems, not those abridged versions which claim to be "complete"), from two very dear parishioners (another love ~ agape), which I have been dipping in frequently to my delight. Today I found a poem that refers to yet another love of mine, guitars. But does it really refer to a wooden instrument? You decide.


Touch lightly Nature's sweet Guitar
Unless thou know'st the Tune
Or every Bird will point at thee
Because a Bard too soon -

Loves are like this poem ~ complicated, uncertain, confusing, but also didactic, sustaining, and what make life worth living. Does this poem restrain the amateur (another form of love ~ from the Latin amo)? Is the sweet guitar a guise for loving another, but not loving enough, or without bold declaration? Interesting words from a recluse, who loved her solitude.


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