Poetry By
Gail White
Published on: 10/22/2008
Emily Dickinson on a Guggenheim
Dearest Lavinia: Venice is unexpected. All day I walk on water, like Peter. I step from a boat into a pearl from which some idle god has carved a church. He has a string of such beads, like soap bubbles rising from a dishpan. You would have cats enough, sister if you were here! They clutter the doorways and are over-supplied with kittens. At night I stand in an archway and look at St. Mark's - don't think I sit in a bright-lighted restaurant, pretending I'm one of the gentry, O no! I'm a strange wayside gypsy still, and silent as marble column, I almost walk invisible. But as for poems- I think poems live like pigeons, thriving on a lean diet. Feed them too much, and they no longer fly, just bow and chuckle to each other. My mind is over-fed here. Adam and Eve and the 12 Apostles shine here in white and gold, and yet I think I have more to say to a hummingbird, and more love for the river-pink.
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