Various portraits of Emily Dickinson.A Poem for Emily Dickinson, and Other Sonnets by Tamara Beryl Latham The Society December 13, 2021 Beauty, Culture, Poetry 8 Comments . Tamara to Emily for Emily Dickinson We viewed the lighted houses well below, whose roads ran serpentine through mounding snow, zoomed in on walls that formed each hollowed room, then juxtaposed the gaiety and gloom. While crumbs were sprinkled sparsely on the floor to fatten the emaciated poor, the great were filled, their bellies stuffed like hogs. “I’m Nobody,” but loathe these “public frogs.” We passed the citrine disc that sweeps the night, our horseman veering blindly to the right. The carriage caromed off the fields of faith, where I, the passenger, and you, the wraith, abruptly stopped to hear a clock that chimed, the empty midnight notes of “Auld Lang Syne.” . . The Monarch’s Touch Her scepter raised in majesty, she dares to rule this jeweled star Britannia though dark eyes of former Kings and current heirs, gaze down on her from portraits. Does she know or even care what they may think? You see, she rides a horse as well as any man, then dons her crown and welcomes Dukes to tea, while scrutinizing every battle plan. Elizabeth! This gown of dignity that flows, the river Thames reflects her grace; her confidence. Behind doors privately, she smiles back at the chamber mirror’s face, then states in perfect English, as she should, “Elizabeth the Second, you done good.” . . Frozen Mannequin The woods are painted white this winter’s eve. A landscape portrait splashed with shards of ice. I long to go; yet, find I cannot leave, my thoughts of you alone have to suffice. The cold and loneliness surround me here, but winds that whisper yearn for me to stay. My eyes, no more than wells of frozen tears, completely empty problems of the day. Yet, herein lies the great poetic sin! The poet in me fails; no muse, no rhyme. As words escape this frozen mannequin, I find the woods a comfort in this time. Soon evening Saints cast light upon the snow, then genuflect imploring that I go. . . Tamara Beryl Latham is a retired Research and Development chemist who is originally from Brisbane, Australia, but currently resides in Virginia. Tamara was the Forum Moderator for Metric Poetry on the Moontown Cafe.com internet site. Her work has appeared in numerous publications, anthologies and literary reviews. NOTE TO READERS: If you enjoyed this poem or other content, please consider making a donation to the Society of Classical Poets. NOTE TO POETS: The Society considers this page, where your poetry resides, to be your residence as well, where you may invite family, friends, and others to visit. Feel free to treat this page as your home and remove anyone here who disrespects you. Simply send an email to email@example.com. Put “Remove Comment” in the subject line and list which comments you would like removed. The Society does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments and reserves the right to remove any comments to maintain the decorum of this website and the integrity of the Society. Please see our Comments Policy here. CODEC News:Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) 8 Responses Sally Cook December 13, 2021 You capture ED very well; her disassociation from the fold of Amherst. As a lone poetic figure of the 19th century, even as a multitude of mediocre poetesses came and went, she remained, a symbol of excellence who set her own standards, as I feel you do. Reply Tamara Beryl Latham December 22, 2021 Thank you, Sally. I appreciate your constructive critique. Emily was an admired poet and one of my favorites. 🙂 Reply Margaret Coats December 13, 2021 What a ghostly midnight ride with Emily! Very effective as an imaginative video of trying to accompany an admired deceased poet. “The Monarch’s Touch” reads mostly as poem of praise, but becomes something of a joke with the last line. I suppose the queen is touching meaningful but ungrammatical words with her special ability to turn them into The Queen’s English, just as former kings were supposed to cure scrofula by their touch. Good description of one kind of writer’s block in “Frozen Mannequin,” although I don’t quite comprehend the couplet concluding this one. Reply Tamara Beryl Latham December 22, 2021 Thank you Margaret for having taken the time to read and respond. I did get a letter from the Queen’s “Lady-in-Waiting” indicating she liked the sonnet very much. With regard to “Frozen Mannequin,” the couplet should clarify that even though I didn’t have sense enough to leave the icy cold (due to sadness over a disagreement with my partner) the Saints did. 🙂 Reply Allegra Silberstein December 13, 2021 Thank you for these lovely poems. Reply Tamara Beryl Latham December 22, 2021 You’re welcome, Allegra, and thank you for commenting. I’m elated you enjoyed them. 🙂 Reply Paul Freeman December 17, 2021 Thanks for the reads, Tamara. I loved the end couplet of ‘The Monarch’s Touch’. I was reminded of the scene in ‘The King’s Speech’ where Colin Firth reels off all the swear words he knows. Thanks again. Reply Tamara Beryl Latham December 22, 2021 Too funny, Paul. LOL! I really do admire Queen Elizabeth II. She’s such a perfectionist. Thanks for commenting. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. 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