As a kid, I never liked her poems even though I wanted to, badly. My best friend's mom had given me a book of them with great expectations. Because I was shy and sensitive and wrote poems, she said I reminded her of Emily Dickinson.
So when I read the poems and hated them, I felt like I double-failed.
This impression lasted a long time. It was particularly strong during periods of social frustration, or when I wasn't writing squat.
But slowly it changed. The concise perfection of a line would come back to me at times.
What really got me was a book at a yard sale. A West Asheville couple had a collection of books on a table, and I was drawn to a worn copy, a small selection of her poems with an introduction by Billy Collins. The introduction was so compelling I couldn't put it down.
He gave me a key to seeing Dickinson's work differently. He took phrases and put them into a context I could understand. After reading this introduction, I felt pumped. I could do this. I could totally read Emily Dickinson and get something out of it.
I flipped to a page halfway through. There were four poems on two pages, each a tiny, compact puzzle. And I didn't get a single one. Not just "wasn't moved" or "uninspired." I really didn't know what her metaphor was referring to, or what the images were intended to communicate.
When I got home I re-read the intro. I vowed to keep trying, and when I wasn't getting it, to just enjoy the images and keep going.
