Elizabeth Barrett Browning died 150 years ago today. At the time of her death she was the most famous woman poet in the English language, and perhaps the most popular, period. It might be instructive to all of us, today, Picador poets on down to the smallest of small presses, to keep that in mind, because in 150 years - in 2161, the middle of the 22nd century - how shall our reputations fare? Bluntly, no one really reads even Mrs. Browning anymore, in any depth, except for students of her work, academics, and the readers who come across her most famous sonnets, in mass market anthologies. There is hardly a craze. Christina Rossetti and Dickinson have fared better. And yet, her legend, and her name, have endured. In today's Evening Standard Michael Meredith defends her husband from slurs he killed her (and does so handily). How does time render us humble? Let me count the ways.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
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