Yesterday I decided I wanted to read and ponder Emily Dickinson’s poem “Grief is a thing with feathers” – which (of course) she did not write.
There is a remarkable and odd little book of that name by Max Porter. It starts with a rather obnoxious crow (the thing with feathers) who facilitates the journey through grief of a man and his 2 sons who have lost partner/mother. The description of self Crow gives, goes like this: “Crow of the death-chill….God-eating, trash-licking, word murdering, carcass-desecrating math-bomb mother-f***er…..”
Maybe one needs to fully express grief (and be heard in that grief, even if that hearing is done by a crow) before one can move on to Hope…so, back to Emily Dickinson, who wrote “Hope” is the Thing With Feathers.
I will just leave it here for your possible enjoyment and contemplation – we need to grieve and we need to hope…don’t forget BOTH!
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
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