Writing is composed of a meld of colors, a mosaic of meanings and words that emerges daily, constantly changing and evolving for some higher purpose. "I tend my mantra of gardens just before dusk," wrote Emily once.
An artist transforms the burden of their solitude into art, and so Emily Isaacson does in poetry. Her accounts of nature, cultivation, childhood, and transcendence are lyrical and riveting, providing a break from realism.
Isaacson's poetry actualizes silence throughout, the ability to quiet the soul in anticipation to receive from a higher source. When we are in need of someone to take us by the hand into the realm of understanding, this she does with mirror-like tranquility. Her word painting of the natural world and the house in which she lives vow a deep solitude found only where modern society has left no footprint.
"Emily is a wordsmith who captures emotion with her pen as an artist captures colour with her brush. Her poems stirred my heart and caused me to stop and ponder. And isn't that what poetry should do..."
Emily Isaacson's First Sonnet
I cannot work but linger in the field,
thus cannot eat, but walk upon the hills,
he is the facet of my trumpet pealed,
his labor drives the water from its fill.
O mortal wound, upon this silent hour;
I cannot slay me, I am overcome,
the thirst be quenched and speaking of its power
in this game where only I am won.
He works, he toils, he sweats beneath the sun,
and I will write what nature has begun,
epiphany in me dwells to be sung—
for I am lonely, misfit, barren one.
What of my woeful rights do I procure,
to stand and now demand my life mature?
What are prophets but the trumpets blown by God to stir the heart?