What is a Storm?

THE SOUL’S STORM

It struck me every day
The lightning was as new
As if the cloud that instant slit
And let the fire through.

It burned me in the night
It blistered in my dream;
It sickened fresh upon my sight
With every morning’s beam.

I thought that storm was brief,—
The maddest, quickest by;
But Nature lost the date of this,
And left it in the sky.

~ Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson needs no introduction, and the poem above is from her book Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete.

Poems by Emily Dickson

Last night, I turned to Emily Dickinson again. What is it with this woman? In any case, the book was already turned to the poem above, “The Soul’s Storm”, when I reached for it. Call that a coincidence! Because I don’t know what it is.

But I believe, in this case, I had to revisit the word “storm” and truly learn the meaning of it. You see, the word recently came up in a discussion/conversation, and I think I romanticized the word and gave dignity it doesn’t deserve this time. Because…

“I thought that storm was brief,—”

The line above captures exactly what I had in mind, when I said “the storm doesn’t last…there’s always a rainbow.” How shallow does this sound, when I didn’t know where the storm was blowing from! So, now I say, “Fuck the storm!”

“[For] Nature lost the date of this,
And left it in the sky.”

But, what is a storm? It is a tempest of words rising against pain to paint the sky with rainbows.

special note: Yesterday I heard some shocking news from a friend, and this poem by Emily Dickinson is shared in support. I’m also linking this post to Trinkets and Armor 4: Life Can’t Smack You Powerless, If You Keep Your Self at the Ready

11 Comments

      1. I agree! We know our Magaly has a fighting soul. She is going to conquer this and we will all be here for her! Big Hugs!

        1. Ok, I don’t know what is going on, but, I just wrote you a comment Khaya, that was me, who wrote the above comment to you, “MagicLoveCrow”. I don’t know why it came up as Anonymous. I am writing this again, because I think my other comment disappeared? LOL! Big Hugs!

  1. Dickenson actually moved to the city I live in for her own health…an amazing poet, and now we see how poetry moves like a fish through life’s waters indeed…reflecting our own lives back to us…

  2. Words and storms and meaning (and our reactions) are always so fluid, so dependent on the moment, on our situation… I believe both things are true–some storms are short, and after all is said and done there comes a rainbow (even if the storm last a little longer, if we look and look with intent… we can usually find light and water dancing color into being). And, of course, there are those nasty storms that strike in shades of fire and horror, the ones that seem to obliterate everything they touch. That sort can leave us shaken and enraged… But you know what? Once the rage is used up (ink is a great eater of rage), we go back to that place where light and water (even if some of the water is tears) bedeck the sky in colors that brighten our hearts. 🌈

    1. “Once the rage is used up (ink is a great eater of rage), we go back to that place where light and water (even if some of the water is tears) bedeck the sky in colors that brighten our hearts.” I love this thought. I shall hold on to as I spill ink in order to paint the rainbow.

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