Sunday Citar - Millet and Emily Dickinson

Jean Francois Millet - "The Shepherdess"

A charm invests a face
Imperfectly beheld.
The lady dare not lift her veil
For fear it be dispelled.

But peers beyond her mesh,
And wishes, and denies,
'Lest interview annul a want
That image satisfies.

Emily Dickinson

For Sunday Citar with Fresh Mommy, I look for a painting and a quote that speak to each other in a way. This painting by Millet has been on my mind all week. This shepherdess has her own kind of Dickinson "veil" as she carries unspoken emotion and possible distress on her petite shoulders. I knew that I needed to post it for you.

I know that the painting especially strikes a chord with me today because it is the 9th anniversary of my father's passing. I kind of feel like that shepherdess today. I miss my Dad.

Thanks to everyone for your wonderful Christmas wishes!! I hope you all enjoyed the holiday very much. I'm happy to say that I'm not surrounded by wrapping paper and cardboard anymore. One kid after another seemed to pop up next to me over the past two days saying, "Can you open this one?" Can you tell that Santa Grandma came bearing her toy sack on Christmas?

Pen to paper

Sitting alone in her room, Emily Dickinson channeled her thoughts into her poetry. She didn't write for an audience. She poured all of herself into her poems. When the creative spark stirred her to write, Emily responded in her own quiet way. I think she was having her own inner dialogue as she crafted sharp, visual images to convey her thoughts about women, life, death, love, nature and God. Writing it all down through poetry on paper became her way to explore these thoughts creatively. The two sides of this poet, public and creative, coexisted amicably. Like a treasure, I think she probably enjoyed having this secret life as a poet. Her poems breathed on their own for her. She was an individual woman creating without any restraints on her art. No outside critic was allowed access to her poetry. Her poetry could stand free and pure on its own. Just as she intended.

I would like to share with you one of my favorite Dickinson poems.

The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.

I've known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.

In the spirit of Dickinson, I have to remember to write for myself. I think my writing will have more authenticity if I worry less about pleasing critics or following current trends in poetry. I'm afraid to fall into the trap of looking at each poem as whether or not it is "worthy" of being published. Like Dickinson, I'll honor my one on one dialogue with my poems. I'll try and see where those thoughts take me from poem to poem.