Few of Emily Dickinson’s poems give up their meaning on a first reading. The enigmatic complexity of her interior life is often expressed in verses – even phrases- that simply can’t be opened like a packet of crisps and their contents scoffed.
The fast food – junk food metaphor is deliberately crass, and should act as a warning to the age that values the sound-byte as a literary achievement, and a culture that idolises public success and equates it with celebrity.
Throughout a life dedicated to solitude and celibacy Dickinson explored the frontiers of belief, its great affirmations and its great uncertainties.
On Monday of Holy Week, reading this poem, I like the long view that looks through crucifixion to resurrection, without flinching at either.
Poem112.
"Success is counted sweetest”
by Emily Dickinson.
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires a sorest need.Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of VictoryAs he defeated — dying —
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!
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