His lost birds.
Editions Unes| N° d'inventaire | 23614 |
| Format | 15 x 21 |
| Détails | 112 p., paperback. |
| Publication | Nice, 2017 |
| Etat | Nine |
| ISBN | 9782877041843 |
After We Don't Play on Graves, a book published in 2015 that presented a selection of poems from the year 1863 – the author's most prolific year – we continue the publication of Emily Dickinson's works with Her Lost Birds, which focuses on the last 5 years of her life (1882-1886). These were the years of mourning and gradual loneliness. Her mother died in 1882, her favorite nephew, Gilbert, died of typhoid the following year, and her close friend, Judge Otis P. Lord, with whom she maintained a passionate correspondence, died in 1884. Dickinson's poetry seems to tighten over time, as these deaths progressed, as domestic responsibilities became increasingly heavy, and as the illness weakened and eventually took her life. She feels the emptiness around her, she feels surrounded by beings of dust and understands that to be alone is to be forgotten. Her poems are shorter, and rarer (a little over a hundred over 5 years, only 2 in the last year), when she could write between 200 and 300 per year in the mid-1860s. This last part of Emily Dickinson's work is marked by a disillusioned faith and an intact belief in the power of human love, it bears the poignant imprint of a woman who becomes the last inhabitant of an existence that is closing in. Her writing, more emaciated, is that of a soul that clings desperately to the nutshell of a life that is capsizing. The poems go so far as to lose their garment of poem, they strip themselves in intense and desperate addresses, in sendings to impossible recipients, in a final sublimation, beyond the poem.
After We Don't Play on Graves, a book published in 2015 that presented a selection of poems from the year 1863 – the author's most prolific year – we continue the publication of Emily Dickinson's works with Her Lost Birds, which focuses on the last 5 years of her life (1882-1886). These were the years of mourning and gradual loneliness. Her mother died in 1882, her favorite nephew, Gilbert, died of typhoid the following year, and her close friend, Judge Otis P. Lord, with whom she maintained a passionate correspondence, died in 1884. Dickinson's poetry seems to tighten over time, as these deaths progressed, as domestic responsibilities became increasingly heavy, and as the illness weakened and eventually took her life. She feels the emptiness around her, she feels surrounded by beings of dust and understands that to be alone is to be forgotten. Her poems are shorter, and rarer (a little over a hundred over 5 years, only 2 in the last year), when she could write between 200 and 300 per year in the mid-1860s. This last part of Emily Dickinson's work is marked by a disillusioned faith and an intact belief in the power of human love, it bears the poignant imprint of a woman who becomes the last inhabitant of an existence that is closing in. Her writing, more emaciated, is that of a soul that clings desperately to the nutshell of a life that is capsizing. The poems go so far as to lose their garment of poem, they strip themselves in intense and desperate addresses, in sendings to impossible recipients, in a final sublimation, beyond the poem.