Emily Dickenson’s life is largely a mystery. She kept her poetry to herself for the most part. After her death, her sister discovered her poems. There are two in particular that I find helpful in my practice. The first clearly states what it is like to experience a trauma that brings about a kind of change to the psyche that I refer to as “soul loss”. Such a loss can easily lead to a kind of existential despair.
There is a pain—so utter—
It swallows being up—
Then covers the abyss with trance—
So memory can step
Around—across—upon it—
As one in a swoon—
Goes steady—where an open eye—
Would drop him—bone by bone.
The second poem reflects the kind of courage it takes to keep on living in the face of such despair.
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.