Oh I fear my stories fatigue you. I would like to learn. Could you tell me how to surf, or is it conveyed, like melody and witchcraft?
Available as a ZINE for $15. Contact me at lehmannmath@yahoo.com to purchase. Narrative inspired from the letters and poetry of Emily Dickinson.
BLOG
Contact Me for Zine (PayPal) information
We can say we started early, we visited the sea and had the mermaids view us and as the sea withdrew, and dusk fell…we thought our fate was to say our day was complete.
I run to think, in hopes of expressing more…. My brother has visited and the night is falling, so I must close with a hymn to myself.
We send the wave to find the wave, an errand so divine. The messenger enamored too, forgetting to return…The only time to dam the sea is when the sea is gone.
“God is indeed a jealous God— He cannot bear to see that we had rather not with him, but with each other play.”
You ask me of my companions. Beaches sir, and the sundown, and there…a dog. Large as myself, that my father brought me.
Two editors of journals came to my house this September and asked me for my mind.
I was ill since Sept, and now it is the off-season. I dare not go, as I work in my prison, and make guests for myself as there is no one around.
Dear Friend…Saturday and here we meet again. You remember the little ‘meeting’ we held for you last spring? We voted to remember you so long as all shall live, including that of immortality, to count ourselves, except sometimes more tenderly, as now…
I do not know of you, a long while. I remember you—several times now. Twice I believe. I wish I knew if you kept me? The doubt, like the mosquito, buzzes round my faith.
There is a solitude of space, a solitude of sea, a solitude of death, but these…..these strides bring solitude of mind.
Of your act, so exquisite…there can be no simple acknowledgment, but the ignominy that only pure ‘grace’ can give.
Your precious letter sits here now, and smiles so kindly at me….When you come home, darling, I shan’t have your letters, shall I, but I shall have yourself, which is more.
Dear Children, Nothing has happened but loneliness, perhaps too daily to relate. Carlo is consistent, Mother conjectures what he might have been, Margaret objects, Vinnie is demoralized, and Miss Kingman called just to inspect your garden.
There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons—- That oppresses, like the Heft of Cathedral Tunes—-
A narrow line pulls us, allowing for a brief moment. Your thoughtfulness given, as you grieve with me….where old words become numb and yet none to replace them with.
Dear Friend—Is this more orderly? Your touching suggestion…is a tender permission. We ride one behind the other. I thank you for the truth.
Though the great waters sleep, that they are still the deep; we cannot doubt. So I send you mere buttercups as out-door flowers are still at sea.
The mind is so near itself, it cannot see distinctly, and I have none to ask yet one thing; do you sense me cometh towards?
As we walk towards dark, I take a glance at your face which is more joyful when you speak, and I miss an almost arrogant look that at times haunted you, but with that exception, it is so real.
I cannot see your fronts, at length I try as you renew your smile—yet an imitation of light that has so little oil I suppose is what I might measure. You will not less believe me I suppose.
Though it is almost nine o’clock, the skies are dark and in which a friend could sail. I have thousands of things to say as also ten thousands but must abate now. To-night looks like “Jerusalem” !…I hope we may all behave so as to reach Jerusalem.
Since I have no sweet flower to send you, I enclose my heart. A little one, sunburnt, half broken sometimes, yet close as the spaniel to its friends.
Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just me, and Immortality.