Emily Dickinson American Poet

Rear View of Dickinson Homestead

East View of Dickinson Homestead

These are two paintings of Emily Dickinson's house in Amherst, Massachusetts. The top one is a view from the rear of the house and the bottom is a view from the side yard. These are impressionistic paintings in which I tried to capture the almost surreal feeling I had while walking around the house and through the garden that is still kept up with lots of flowering plants. I have spent some time reading her poetry and looking into her life through several books that I managed to find in used bookstores on Long Island. The single most amazing fact about her is that she never published her poems. They were found by her relatives (probably her brother) tied up in neat little bundles in her dresser drawer. One fascinating book was actually a collection of her letters to various people in her life like her brother and Thomas Higginson a friend and critic of her poems. Here is a letter she wrote to the critic:
25 April 1862

Mr Higginson,
Your kindness claimed earlier gratitude-but I was ill-and write today, from my pillow.
Thank you for the surgery- it was not so painful as I supposed. I bring you others-as you ask-though they might not differ-
While my thought is undressed-I can make the distinction, but when I put them in the Gown - they look alike, and numb.
You asked how old I was? I made no verse-but one or two-until this winter - Sir-
I had a terror-since September-I could tell to none-and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground-because I am afraid- You inquire my Books-For Poets-I have Keats-and Mr and Mrs Browning. For Prose - Mr Ruskin - Sir Thomas Browne - and the Revelations. I went to school-but in your manner of the phrase-had no education. When a little Girl, I had a friend, who taught me Im- mortality-but venturing too near, himself-he never returned-Soon after, my Tutor, died - and for several years, my Lexicon - was my only companion-Then I found one more-but he was not contented I be his scholar-so he left the Land.
You ask of my Companions Hills- Sir-and the Sundown-and a Dog-large as myself, that my Father bought me-They are better than Beings-because they know-but do not tell-and the noise in the Pool, at Noon - excels my Piano. I have a Brother and Sister - My Mother does not care for thought-and Father, too busy with his Briefs - to notice what we do - He buys me many Books - but begs me not to rcad thcm-because he fears they joggle the Mind. They are religious-except me-and address an Eclipse, every morning-whom they call their "Father." But I fear my story fatigues you-I would like to learn-Could you tell me how to grow-or is it unconveyed- like Melody-or Witchcraft?
You speak of Mr Whitman-I never read his Book-but was told that he was disgraceful-
I read Miss Prcscott's "Circumstance," but it followed me, in the Dark-so I avoided her-
Two Editors of Journals came to my Father's House, this winter- and asked me for my Mind-and when I asked them "Why," they said I was penurious - and they, would use it for the World -
I could not weigh myself-Myself-
My size felt small- to me- I read your Chapters in the Atlantic- and experienced honor for you-I was sure you would not reject a confiding question-
Is this- Sir-what you asked me to tell you?
Your friend,
E - Dickinson.

Rear Entrance Emily Dickinson House 

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