Poetry. Oh Poetry.

For about three out of the six months we’ve been in school, it seems, I have sat in English and listened to Mr. Burge plead that he in no way wants us to hates poetry. And nearly each of these days I have gone home, looked at the homework, and thought about it something along the lines of hate, but it’s not. It’s kind of like that crazy uncle everyone has, who always shows up to dinner, nobody is quite sure how he is family, and yet there is still a glimmer of hope, even if it comes very seldom. So there I am, around eleven o’ clock, half way done with the assignment, when I come across “Because I could not stop for death” by Emily Dickinson. I remember what my teacher said about how it is almost impossible to understand Emily unless you have a PHD in Emily, so I prepare to struggle through it just enough to write some answers down that are close to right. I reach the end, ready for the black hole that usually hits my brain when I read one of these things, then I have to reread 100 times, but it doesn’t come. Could this be; could I actually understand this? I actually do, and I’m sure you all can the elation that filled my person. I guess it really does work with everything: if you work on something for long enough, eventually it will make sense. Yes, even Emily Dickinson.