She’s the poet nobody really understands. Baking was her passion, and death a frequent subject. Sylvia Plath, perhaps?

Some of her writing crackles with passion, and psychologists have argued for years about which mental illness she had. Anne Sexton?

She struggles with the concept of God. Jane Kenyon in her darker moments?

No, none of the above. This woman, who always dressed in white, wrapped her solitude around her like a heavy shawl. She was poetry’s original mystery. Her name was Emily.

Readers often meet Miss Dickinson in high school or college. But many come away from her poems wondering who this woman really was and how someone who lived such a quiet, almost cloistered life can capture deep emotions so deftly.

Director Jim Wolpaw wondered this, too, when he was working on his film “Loaded Gun: Life, and Death, and Dickinson,” which airs on PBS tomorrow night. (Check local listings.) But since biographical material only gives us a faint sketch, Mr. Wolpaw looked to a wide range of possible sources.

What he did, essentially, was talk to experts from various fields – historians, literature professors, artists, psychotherapists, a United States poet laureate, and a psychic. Each gives Wolpaw an intriguing view, such as "she chose to sing because she was afraid" or "her language was her marriage and children." Some comments are deeply insightful – as when Billy Collins says "death was what gave her her spiritual dimension." Other views are, well, just plain strange.

But the experts really aren’t much help. So Wolpaw turns to the poet herself - in the form of various actresses whom he auditions for the role of Emily. Over the course of the hour-long film, he asks these would-be Emilys four main questions: Why don’t you ever leave your house? Are you in love with death? Do you have a problem with God? Describe what would be for you a truly wild night?

The women’s responses are as varied as those of the experts. And after listening to many opinions, the director proclaims, quite rightly, that Dickinson will always be an enigma. She, like many historical figures, must be known largely through her work.

In the process of exploring his four questions, however, Wolpaw shows viewers the Dickinson he has come to know – or imagine. She is a "killer poet," he believes, partly because of the poem that begins "My Life had stood – a loaded Gun – / In Corners – till a Day/ The Owner passed – identified –/ And carried Me away –"

Throughout the poem, which threads through the film, Dickinson includes strong language, such as "To foe of His – I’m deadly foe –" and "For I have but the power to kill,/ Without – the power to die–"

These phrases help prove, according to the film, that the Good Emily has gotten too much attention over the decades and the Bad Emily must have her due. Wolpaw suggests that this darker side, which includes great passion and sexuality, may be the reason that Dickinson still has so many fans.

Some scholars would quibble with that assessment. But few could argue that the film fails to meet Wolpaw’s goal. As he said in an e-mail recently: "With 'Loaded Gun' we are trying to say 'Isn't this stuff amazing? I don't really understand it, you may not understand it – but just listen to it ...' "

Wolpaw, who also said via e-mail that "I am not an avid poetry fan, in fact I have a great deal of trouble warming up to most poetry," will delight many viewers with his boldly offbeat approach. For some, he will remove the 'burka' that has kept them from seeing poetry at all, and for that he will likely win kudos.

But poets may bristle at some of the assumptions the film makes, about both Dickinson and the genre. They will notice Wolpaw’s bias, which is decidedly 21st century. They may even find themselves wanting to speak for the woman in white – perhaps something along these lines:

Are you obsessed with death?
-You don’t know much about verse, do you? Many poets are "obsessed" with death. It’s one of the great subjects.

Do you have a problem with God?
-Like many people, I wrestle with the divine. Why does that shock you?

What would your idea of a wild night be?
-I beg your pardon. That question might be appropriate in your time, but not mine.

Why don’t you ever leave your house?
-I live a life of the mind, which means I have everything I need right here. Solitude is essential for poetry. Now go, and leave me to my work.

An acquaintance recently sent me a link to a story the BBC website ran last year. A British woman who loves poetry and quantum mechanics decided to blend the two subjects in an unusual way, to show how randomness applies to both fields. She did this by partnering with a local farmer who had some lovely, woolly sheep. The kind of sheep one might write poetry about, or on.

Yes, that's right. She wrote a poem about sheep and then spray painted the words - one per animal – onto the backs of her wriggling, baaing subjects. Then she recorded the combinations, or walking poetry, that the ruminants created. One of their efforts, according to the article, was : Warm drift, graze gentle, white below the sky, soft sheep, mirrors, snow clouds.

Not bad for beginners, though they need to work on their line breaks.

The farmer involved told the BBC that "After last year's devastation (of foot and mouth) we all needed cheering up, and this might just do it."

Northern Arts, which gave the woman a 2,000-pound grant for the project, said the experiment was "an exciting fusion" of the two disciplines.

At first, my reaction was "baaa humbug." But then the good angel sitting on my left shoulder said, "Stop being such a stick-in-the-mud. They’re bringing poetry to the attention of thousands in a very accessible, non-threatening way. If more people thought of poetry as enjoyable, the art form wouldn’t have such an image problem."

The bad angel on my right shoulder, however, couldn't stop grinning maliciously. "Poetry written by sheep?" he said with glee. "Why not poems written by frogs, or mice, or flies. No thought involved, just jump around a bit. Great way to reinforce the notion of poets as irrational."

The bad angel had a point. As any experienced writer knows, poetry is a mixture of conscious and subconscious thought. It is an intricate dance where choice and serendipity take turns leading the way. If reason has the upper hand for too long, the poem becomes flat and lifeless. Likewise, if chance leads too often, there is no order, no meaning.

To put it another way, sheep without a shepherd usually get lost, as do "poems" without a poet. I remember this lesson vividly from my graduate school days.

A poem that I had written about a blacksmith shop was critiqued in class one evening. The next week, one of my peers brought in a "poem" that he had created by rearranging my work from the previous class. He passed around copies of his creation, which had the same number of lines and words per line that mine did, but the order had been obliterated.

I can't remember the specifics of how he rearranged my poem. Did he cut it up and throw the words into the air, perhaps? In any case, I’m sure he had no barnyard assistance. My classmate – now a respected professor, critic, and book editor – read the lines aloud with great pride, excitedly pointing out how the words rubbed together. Perhaps he thought this new piece was the equivalent of opera, where the audience doesn’t need to understand the language to appreciate its power.

But there was no music to add feeling or depth to his arrangement. His words bumped, they didn’t flow, and the piece had no story line to add resonance and meaning. Music doesn’t arrive in a poem by chance. It’s the result of a series of careful choices.

After days of ruminating about this issue, I finally messaged the poet who told me about the BBC story. What was his take on things?

His response surprised me: "I was thinking that they [the sheep] probably have a larger audience than I do."

My friend had a point, one the bad angel would simply love.