We Never Know How High We Are – Emily Dickinson

We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies–

The Heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a King–

Happy Birthday, Emily

Emily Dickinson was born this day in 1830. Celebrate with her handwritten recipe for coconut cake:

Fame is A Fickle Food

Fame is a fickle food

Upon a shifting plate

Whose table once a

Guest but not

The second time is set

Whose crumbs the crows inspect

And with ironic caw

Flap past it to the

Farmer’s corn

Men eat of it and die

Hole In the Head Review

Emily Dickinson once defined poetry this way: “If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way?”
Who am I to disagree with Emily Dickinson?
The Hole In The Head Review is an online literary/arts review that will publish in early 2020. My intent is to publish poems, prose poems, photographs, paintings and other works of art that make me feel as if the top of my head were taken off. I anticipate publishing a new issue every two months.
Work submitted will be reviewed by established writers and artists and notifications will go out no later than 30 days after submission or the submission fee of $4 will be refunded.
An online journal has modest start-up expenses – primarily website design/hosting and the cost of one year subscription to Submittable, the online tool for submitting works.
Any assistance you provide will be greatly appreciated. Your support will be recognized prominently in each issue.
Thank you. Peace and all good things to you all!

Donate via GoFundMe here: https://www.gofundme.com/f/hole-in-the-head-review?utm_source=customer&utm_medium=copy_link&utm_campaign=p_cp+share-sheet

To be alive

To be alive—is Power—
Existence—in itself—
Without a further function—
Omnipotence—Enough—

To be alive—and Will!
‘Tis able as a God—
The Maker—of Ourselves—be what—
Such being Finitude!

– Emily Dickinson