To Emily Dickinson, My Lady in White
More than a hundred years separate us
Yet you are far familiar than parents, siblings and lovers.
At Amherst where you lived like a pin which didn’t drop silence,
Composing verses under the lamp of solitude
I’ve been by your writing desk and watched you recite poetry in my sleep.
More precious to me than Wordsworth or Keats
Or poets of my time who dabble with words
A quiet being with a soul made of playful dashes,
Your naturalness made nature shy.
Of birds and bees, life, death and immortality —
Is there a topic you haven’t touched with painful ease?
Several sad eyes you’ve wiped sublime
Spoken the language of nature’s hidden legacies.
If I could ever write or express in words,
How much your verses mean to me
I would have to take my heart out or behead myself —
For you reside in my blood and bones, monarch supreme
My fair lady in White.
©Kaustabh Kashyap
