If Emily D had worn red bloomers
under that stiff black bombazine,
wrapped herself in a Spanish shawl
she couldn't have stayed in that bedroom
day after day, hurling her heart
to the heavens in stacatto phorases.
She would have wandered about
getting dust on her high-button shoes
lifted a glass with Rumi in some
friendly tavern, met a black swan,
maybe even married him.
She would have written her poems
gaily as she went here and there
on the backs of grocery lists,
given them as blessings to strangers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem