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Emily Dickinson's short poem, the third of the four she sent to Thomas Wentworth Higginson to begin their relationship, is a salvo right across his bow. She either takes apart his misogyny, or his elite editorial status, or both, and more--because, after all, this is Dickinson's writing. It never says just one thing--except her rage at and acceptance of her situation.
Stevens' poetry is always weird, strange, elliptical. He may even surpass himself in this poem about an empty jar set in the wilderness of Tennessee. What does this jar do? Nothing less than bring meaning to the world. Or maybe rob it of all meaning.
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