April 8: Lives of the Poets

by allisonkujiraoka

Dickinson spoke in staccato — if she spoke at all —

While Whitman held forth with bluster.

Emerson, Boston Brahmin, was all haught and pretense;

Thoreau, dirt under his fingernails, all grit.

Shakespeare was a bawdy, profane chap in his spare time.

So was Donne, when no one was looking.

Wordsworth, head in the clouds;

Frost, treading and philosophizing;

Longfellow, sing-songing.

Is this what we mean when we speak of Voice?

Probably not.

Then why do they echo even now?

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