Emily Dickinson

49, 67, 130, 185, 214, 216, 241, 249, 258, 287, 303, 328, 341, 348, 435, 441, 448, 449, 465, 501, 505, 510, 632, 640, 650, 712, 754, 986, 1078, 1129, 1624, 1732, Higginson Letter

To set the tone, here is a poem I wrote on the fly, literally on pg. 1186 of our anthology, after reading poem 1078:

"Douglass and Stowe
the labor of the day
Dickinson
a chocolate box
that shoos them
both away."

Dickison is the playground after purpose, and I thank God for such solace when burdens are heavy. Sometimes one needs just to roll around in pink cotton, and one can find it, even in Dickinson's images of death. It is easy for me to give myself over to her with feeling but without much thought. Her poetry is add-a-bead from a Carnival cruise, not necessarily cheap but fun and easy. This woman would have had a flipping field day with AOL's instant messenger. Her first one to me is "Let's play!"

So let's.

Bio:
The first thing I noticed about Emily was that she died young and then that she lived in only two houses. Also that she never married. Also that she was an eccentric. What is elucidated in the bio is that she had a powerful fear of death and perceived childbearing as being particularly risky, which it was at that time. (Some have asked whether Emily was in love with death, but I only think she confronted it, perhaps because she feared it so.) I'd like to know, in light of all the forbidden trists, if Emily went to her grave a virgin, as marriage doesn't cause childbirth. Something to think about.

Personally, I was interested to know that Emily found the Bronte sisters appealing. I identify with Charlotte Bronte in particular. Many do not know that she died in the fourth month of pregnancy from a rare pregnancy-related disease called hyperemesis gravidarum. I also suffer from this hellish nightmare and would be dead myself were it not for modern day advances in the medical field. In some ways, this lent special credibility to 185:

"Faith" is a fine invention
When Gentlemen can see-
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency."

The only difference is that I am perhaps more willing to consider the microscope as a component of faith.

I can relate to Dickinson's reclusiveness and aspire to be that old lady with 25 cats who lives at the top of the hill in the delapidated house. This means I will have to outlive everyone, however, and my genetic predispositions likely make it an impossible dream.

I also related much to this bit in the text:

"She brought to poetry her schooling in contemporary science, as well as her lifelong alertness to contemporary events, and seized on the familiar genre of the 'occasional poem,' a poem suggested by some event or experience, as her way of responding to the events of the day, including many passages she encountered in her reading. The result was often occasional poetry in which the occasion was tacit, not explicit."

Apparently I am Emily Dickinson reincarnate. But only the side of her that wrote very poorly on that one bad day in a lifetime, in post-rejection besottment. And do you know, I had to come up with names for the verses about my dad? They were unnamed along with everything.

On forbidden love:
Again, was this woman a virgin? I want to know if she makes any sense in her eccentricity.

While Emily did not stop for death, she may have paused long enough to give these "special friends" a gander:

Susie G. of course was Emily's SIL and possible "jolly playmate", while Samuel Bowles was one of a string of forbidden loves. I found the description of him as "electric, startlingly handsome" to be a perfect illustration of the "eye of the beholder" concept. (Imho, it's a description more fitting for... say... Senator William Hodges of Tallahassee's own Goodwood, which I know I have not mentioned prior to this posting.) The Rev. is another curiosity, but he was Presbyterian, so I can understand his appeal.* Speaking of Goodwood, the affinity for the aged Judge Lord reminds me of Senator Hodges' marriage to a woman 20 years his junior. And for the record, it appears that Judge Lord was technically only 18 years Emily's senior, not that it matters.

I thought this was interesting:

"Without the poet's overtures (a glass of sherry, flowers, poems) to the newcomer, Emily Dickinson would not be in this or any other anthology. She might have been wholly forgotten had not young Mabel Todd (at Lavinia's instigation) painstakingly transcribed many of Dickinson's poems."

It made me wonder how many genius artists there are and have been who have not been discovered.

What comes next are poems by which I wrote comments:

130: For all her talk of death, clearly she was part of life.

185: This one moves me for personal reasons. I can identify with the frustration and sarcasm.

216: This reminds me of one of my own poems. I'll share it in a later post. I do want to say that the 1861 version was to my way of thinking not half as good as the 1859 version. There are things I like about the second version, but the first is more simple, more honest.

241: You have to hand it to her - it is an interesting perspective. I nearly get the feeling someone has been dishonest with her or that she perceived them as being so. Perhaps she is angry and visualizing the agonizing death of one who did not return her affections and maybe even toyed with her a bit?

249: This is excellent. There was much discussion in the car where this was read aloud more than once. It seems to say:

Just one night
with you
what I would give
to throw caution to the wind
to taste my wine on
lips of yours and live.

"Done with the Compass-
Done with the Chart!"

We see in these strong lines that this is a forbidden thing. Is it to do with unrequited love? Or the impossible love of adulturous origin? Or the love that dare not speak its name? Whatever the case, this is definately an intriguing poem full of delicious agony. Instead of tending the garden to get it out of her system, she is obviously using pen and paper as an emotional emesis basin. And yet, I'll bet only time purged the thing that caused such verse... and I'll bet not wholly.

258: This seems to be about the evocativeness of winter. She seems not to entirely understand her own emotional connections to all its nuances, and I find this lovely. I also find something humble about not attempting to dissect it but only attempting to feel it and relate that feeling. I wrote "Wow." by:

"When it comes, the Landscape listens-
Shadows-hold their breath-
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death-"

I wonder about her capitalizations and if they have anything to do with a spirituality of sorts. Otherwise I can't imagine them. But like Emily, I'd rather feel than dissect.

287: I have not read any of the links to these poems, because I'd like to have my ideas without much if any influence. I will read them, but not now. 287 is a snapshot of death. It's a picture of the finality of it, the certainty of it. Emily makes a definate statement: None can argue with death. The fourth stanza stumps me. I marvel at it; the hands on the clockface, the reference to God... I can't figure out if this is a reverent observation or an irreverent sarcasm. Is she toying with the idea that it could be both and sometimes is? Or am I making difficult a simplicity?

328: There is a place for poetry like this. For me it does 2 things:
1) confirms that Emily recognized the power of simple beauty
2) verifies that her eye was not trained entirely on sorrow (which proves relief to the involved reader)

341: This reminds me of a poem I wrote after my dad died. More on this later. I did wonder at these lines:

"As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow-
First-Chill-then Stupor-then the letting go-"

Is there a double meaning? Is there a parallel here between the dead who must let go of life and the living who, to some extent, must let go of the dead? Is there a "triple" meaning? Look at the word "recollect". Memories, yes. But also... a boneyard through the seasons. There was snow in winter where Emily lived. It collected on stones in the chill, the stupor of winter and then let go in the spring and summer. Fall the chill came on. Winter: the stupor of numbing cold snow. It's cyclic. For the lost and those surviving loss, it is cyclic!

348: I remarked that this poem could have been entitled "A Slap In the Face". This piece is an excellent and real description of the sting of the daring of beauty after a fall. In humble frustration she seems to use the last of the four lines to curse her own naivete. She and I could sit on a park bench and talk about this thread. I wish she were here with email; we could laugh together in the dark. I make due with her counterparts, her contemporary fellows, those of us part of the human experience.

441: There is obviously some sort of disconnect here. I can't figure out the second set. What is the parallel between nature and Emily? She talks of God and herself as part of the natural, perhaps fallible world. It's a nice little piece however elusive.

449: I appreciate it for its novel scenario. For a moment, when you're mulling it over, digesting it... death comes a little too near, does it not? Emily, so alive, pen flicking across the paper... and you there listening to it echo through time... all at once you remember that mossy lips became her reality as it is sure to become yours. And you sort of hold your breath for the time it takes a flashbulb to go off, and you're stunned the same! So you think about your immediate surroundings and the goals you must reach to feel you've been productive for the day and POOF! You're safe again, and Emily is just a silly old dead poet, an unreal thing, thank God. But you know that you'd better stay away from the bone that she cuts to or else you're sleeping with the light on tonight.

501: Don't look now: my ignorance/naivete/stupidity is showing. I could not for the life of me figure out the last four lines and particularly, the last two.

"Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul-"

What is it?!?

650: Seemed less a poem and more an observation, a simple common phenomenon.

712: I know I make myself cliche, but I LOVED THIS! Another novel idea. She is acquainting herself with the thing I believe she fears most. I think she fears it more even than abandonment. Of course now, we hope it's like a roller coaster you can't stand the thought of going on, yet find in the end was very much worth the ride.

986: Ophiciophobia?

1078: This is my favorite Emily poem in the unit. I can't help it. Another snapshot of life and the lead reality that death drops on a home. She has it right, you know. That life goes on is a slap in the face; it's the first offense after leaving the boneyard and falling yourself into a sort of dull, sleeping grave. You wake up and it's business as usual. But the world becomes a strange replica and you find yourself searching for a giant toy train rolling by on an AA battery. Everything is real but not. The cars travel for the first time at the speed of light; you stand in the middle of the world's activity as it blurs by. Em's poem is the perfect still of the alienation that only death makes real.

1129: Is there a dual meaning in the word "lies"? Very cute. This was simple. It seems again linked with death. Wondering aloud about the natural world and about heaven. I hope she knows everything now... unless half the fun is getting there!

1624: The wonderful thing about Em's poetry is that there is very little pretense to it. It is mostly short and to the point. This is terribly freeing. I can read and reread her works without feeling guilty or bothered. One can peel away the layers and learn more and more. Longer works are harder to live by. My note says: "Her verse is as simple as functioning... and as complex." That is it exactly. That you are is simple enough. You go here and do this and arrive several times a day at the bathroom door. But for the five minutes you chance to see a Nova special on human biology (on your way to the bathroom door) you are a miracle, a mystery, an impossible enigma. This poem evoked my favorite transmission of thought.

1732: Another to do with death? Two loved ones lost? Simple and yet complex. She does it again.

Emily for tots.

Visit Emily's grave.
(A better view of the stone - sans banana.)

*I'm Presbyterian.