Thank You’s Softer Side

Forgive me for being late with thoughts about Emily Dickinson and Thanksgiving. Usually, the poet’s response to recurring events like holidays and memorials is muted and atypical. I find this to be especially true of religious observances. Nonetheless, there is respect and significance noted for the impulse to express thanks. Unlike some other “teaching poems” this one is rather gentle.

Gratitude – is not the mention
Of a Tenderness,
But its still appreciation
Out of Plumb of Speech.

When the Sea return no Answer
By the Line and Lead
Proves it there’s no Sea, or rather
A remoter Bed?

Dickinson seems especially sensitive to gratitude that is strong and fundamental, if not particularly noticeable. I find, “still appreciation” a rhetorical way to acknowledge a sound, honest relationship so rooted in trust and mutual appreciation, few words are needed any more. Like marriage after several decades, or a friendship that has stood the test of time.

It is not clear whether the first stanza and “the mention/Of a Tenderness,” refers to my tender expression of thank you, or of someone else’s tenderness that deserves my mention. The phrase “…Plumb of Speech” as a metaphor for the limitation and the measurement between two points, is, in this case, between what I’ll refer to as my voice and another’s ear.

Just as I, when a little girl, liked to watch my neighbors or relatives when they puttered with home projects, teaching me what a plumb line was, I imagine the poet watching as servants and construction crews worked at the homestead. It was a tiny farm with animals, crops and constant growth to the barn, the house and peripheral buildings. Unlike me, Dickinson studied the uses of the plumb line and adapted it poetically.

Then, “..line and lead” compared to the vastness of “..the Sea (that) return no Answer” suggests the puny improbability of a truly accurate statement of thanks in a relationship between humans and God, a child and adult, anyone and the myriad gift-givers a life encounters.

Silence, or nearly so, does not mean there is not gratitude, ”When the Sea return no Answer”.

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My Heart Outgrew Me

One of the reasons I return often to read Emily Dickinson poems is the recurrent topic of change.

I was recently reading one of the letters Dickinson wrote in the summer of 1861 and was struck by these poignant and strangely tender words, “God made me…He built the heart in me – Bye and bye it outgrew me – and like the little mother – with the big child – I got tired holding him -…”.

Casually expressed, while acknowledging a mystery, this is a thought spoken with acceptance of inevitable transformation in self awareness. But, in the poems, there is much evidence to contradict such sanguine compliance with change. I wonder if Dickinson’s “I Years had been from Home” doesn’t describe the discomforts of reshaping, or remodeling, one’s perspectives.

I Years had been from Home
And now before the Door
I dared not enter, lest a Face
I never saw before

Stare solid into mine
And ask my Business there -
“My Business but a Life I left
Was such remaining there?”

I leaned upon the Awe -
I lingered with Before -
The Second like an Ocean rolled
And broke against my ear -

I laughed a crumbling Laugh
That I could fear a Door
Who Consternation compassed
And never winced before.

I fitted to the Latch
My Hand, with trembling care
Lest back the awful Door should spring
And leave me in the Floor -

Then moved my Fingers off
As cautiously as Glass
And held my ears, and like a Thief
Fled gasping from the House -

I understand “Home,” and “the Door” of the first stanza like wistful remembrance of my innocent, if childish, self.  Homesick for those days, “I dared not enter”, toys with lingering childishness in imagining I could return if I wanted to those blameless years. However, what I would find would be the me that I am today. “.. a Face/I never saw before/Stare stolid into mine/And ask my Business there - ”.

Daydreaming and fantasizing how I’d rather my life be than how it is, can create a kind of unreal existence if it goes on long enough. Then, if I change my life into something from which I no longer need to escape in fantasy, what does that do to my recollection of years of living with one foot, so to speak, in unreality? Reflecting cannot be helped. I have to “..ask my Business there – /’My Business but a Life I left/Was such remaining there?’ ”.

The poem acknowledges what may on the surface seem utterly absurd. A successful life pining for its former, very limited existence. I might even try to re-imagine my fantasies just to push away the feelings of loss. “I leaned upon the Awe -/ I lingered with Before – ”. Fear and longing become entwined. I may briefly experience myself as two different people, the here-and-now me and the former me with “the awful Door”, to separate two “selves.”

But, finally, I know it is not the past that beckons most: “And held my ears, and like a Thief / Fled gasping from the House – ”.

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Good Parent Teaches Character First

Emily Dickinson’s “To interrupt His Yellow Plan” persuades me the sun is qualified to act as mentor; by establishing its solid, unyielding nature in words that also describe a good parent. “The Sun does not allow/ Caprices of the Atmosphere – ”

To interrupt His Yellow Plan
The Sun does not allow
Caprices of the Atmosphere -
And even when the Snow

Heaves Balls of Specks, like Vicious Boy
Directly in His Eye -
Does not so much as turn His Head
Busy with Majesty -

‘Tis His to stimulate the Earth -
And magnetize the Sea -
And bind Astronomy, in place,
Yet Any passing by

Would deem Ourselves – the busier
As the Minutest Bee
That rides – emits a Thunder -
A Bomb – to justify -

First, character. Second, the source of the conflict. Third, the plan. Fourth, like a parting thought, or postscript, busyness, or a “big stick” is not the same as meaningful purpose.

Before saying what the “grand plan” is, exactly, the poem acknowledges inevitable pitfalls and menace that will be thrown at the sun ~ and me. As I read , and imagine “… Snow/Heaves Balls of Specks, like Vicious Boy/Directly in His Eye” I am reminded of all the disappointments, losses and misfortune that seem to threaten, even wreck our lives.  But, I am also shown the mismatch of setbacks, even moods and desires, contrasted with the overall, immovable, purpose. “ ‘Tis His to stimulate the Earth – /And magnetize the Sea – /And bind Astronomy, in place,”.

Finally, its final stanza warns against confusing “purpose” with being busy; nor is the power to create havoc a “justification” for existence. After all, “.. the minutest Bee/That rides – emits a Thunder – ”.

And, it doesn’t take a genius to drop “A Bomb – to justify - ” whatever it is intended to validate.

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I NEED A Change of Pace

I love my life and the opportunity to share online and in discussion groups the poems of Emily Dickinson. By volunteering frequently at the Emily Dickinson Museum, many wonderful neighbors have become friends. Occasionally, and today being one of those occasions, I have an urge to shake things up and do something totally different. That’s fine, you say. My (not-so-big) problems is – I have an equal desire to keep things as they are.

Dickinson’s “They called me to the Window, for” shows the poet’s power to create enormous change of pace from everyday habits and routines, without actually going anywhere, by reading her own imaginary images. Then, translating them in this poem.

They called me to the Window, for
” ‘Twas Sunset” – Some one said -
I only saw a Sapphire Farm -
And just a Single Herd -

Of Opal Cattle — feeding far
Upon so vain a Hill -
As even while I looked – dissolved -
Nor Cattle were – nor Soil -

But in their Room – a Sea – displayed -
And Ships — of such a size
As Crew of Mountains – could afford -
And Decks – to seat the skies -

This – too – the Showman rubbed away -
And when I looked again -
Nor Farm – nor Opal Herd – was there -
Nor Mediterranean -

I can almost get my shot of something different, electric and exciting by bearing down (in my own imagination) on the flight from reality in this poem.

Somebody in the family calls me to the window ~ “” ‘Twas Sunset” – Some one said -” ~ to show me a sunset. What could be more commonplace? Sunset itself a ritual; predictable, if unique each time.

Then, imagination takes over. The poem recognizes what is unstable, short about a sunset and then “runs with it” using magical pictures of “.. a Sapphire Farm - ” and “Opal Cattle – ” that “.. even while I looked – dissolved – ”.

I am not looking for anything steady. Just a temporary jolt. Enhanced by the poem, I’m caught up in the display before me that so thoroughly displaces itself in stages ~ “But in their Room (stead) – a Sea – displayed - ” one image is wiped out by the other, which also changes immediately ~ “This – too – the Showman rubbed away -”. (In one of Dickinson’s notes on this poem she uses “stead” in place of “Room.”)

All of a sudden, “And when I look again -”, this fantazmagorical break with routine is gone. “Nor Farm – nor Opal Herd – was there -/Nor Mediterranean – ”.  Just what I needed.

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New Dickinson-related site>>

Indian Summer, A Call to Remember

Fall is fully underway here in Western Massachusetts, and I have begun to accept the need to get out winter clothes.  Emily Dickinson’s “Indian summer” poem shares a response to its welcome and inevitable, but temporary respite. “These are the days when Birds come back -” is such a musical, nostalgic and personal poem. It’s also like a painting in its control.

These are the days when Birds come back -
A very few – a Bird or two -
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies resume
The old – old sophistries of June -
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee -
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear -
And softly thro’ the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.

Oh sacrament of summer days,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze -
Permit a child to join -

Thy sacred emblems to partake -
They consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!

I am tickled by the thought of a bird looking back over its shoulder, “To take a backward look”. Any day now there will be a balmy morning or afternoon when I will be reminded of the carefree temperatures of early summer. But, being reminded of “June,” is for the weather to behave as a sophist, “a person who reasons with clever but fallacious arguments,” my dictionary says.

Indian summer is “A blue and gold mistake./Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee.”

Of course Dickinson never uses the term Indian summer, when weather is sunny and clear and above 21°C (70°F), and all of the leaves of the trees have turned. But before the first snow has fallen, “..softly thro’ the altered air/Hurries a timid leaf”.

This period normally associated with mid-October to late-November in the northern states of the U.S. will become, “Oh sacrament of summer days,/Oh Last Communion in the Haze -”.

I come from Christian teachings, so I can identify the reference: “Permit a child to join -”. In Christian churches, no child prior to “confirmation” or “profession of faith” is allowed to join in the sacrament of communion, a worship service tradition. Anyone not familiar with Dickinson’s use of this understood cultural norm of her day, will be familiar with some other sort of “coming of age” ritual. Youngsters eager to grow up chafe at its imposition when they are “too young.”

The last stanza seems to me to equate summer with everyone’s best days, that “…immortal wine!” we like to think of as heaven.

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Prayer for Parents, Self

I suppose the best prayers ~ personal hopes and expectations ~ are emblematic of our ideal self, always a little bit imaginary.

Emily Dickinson’s “’Tis true – They shut me in the Cold -” acknowledges first the baggage and grudges, of childhood, as well as the cognitive procedure to achieve a life free of them.  Spoken as a prayer, the poem’s aim is toward becoming a more honorable person.

‘Tis true – They shut me in the Cold -
But then — Themselves were warm
And could not know the feeling ’twas -
Forget it – Lord – of Them -

Let not my Witness hinder Them
In Heavenly esteem -
No Paradise could be – Conferred
Through Their beloved Blame -

The Harm They did – was short – And since
Myself – who bore it – do -
Forgive Them – Even as Myself -
Or else – forgive not me -

My experience says that childhood years and feelings about unhappy memories may hinder true maturity. Children and parents are certainly not always in harmony.  Expressing these stressful contrasts, “..me in the Cold -” while “.. – Themselves were warm” perfectly describes a child’s complaint. Sometimes complaints are warranted, sometimes not, of course. Then, the adult perspective, they “..could not know..”

This poem/prayer describes a certainty, “Forget it – Lord – of Them - ”, an authority over self that only results from complete acceptance.  Showing, too, that growing up may require the realization that proving fault in a parent not only does not improve our own status with ourself: “Let not my Witness hinder Them”.  Let alone with anyone else: “No Paradise could be – Conferred/Through Their beloved Blame -”.  Forgiveness magically works both ways, ”- Even as Myself -” enjoyed forgiveness in the process.

This personal voice echos all authentic religious teaching, that since the person who suffered has forgiven those who caused the pain, then surely God will, too. “… since/Myself – who bore it – do -/Forgive Them…”.

Whether regarding parents or someone else I feel has harmed me I have habitually been content to strive to be more forgiving. This poem confronts me with the absolute. “Or else – forgive not me -”.

One humorous way to recall my notion of “enough forgiveness” is also aimed at suggesting I relax, too, and goes something like this: Everything will be alright in the end. If everything is not alright, it’s not the end.

This poem is much more divisive, if you will, between lackadaisical attitudes and genuine, complete forgiveness, demanding that which sets me free for my tomorrows.

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Shipwreck Survivor

When great storms have their way with land and man, who survives? Who perishes? Is it a caprice of nature? Survival of the fittest? In “Glee – The great storm is over -”, Emily Dickinson’s ballad take us in our imagination to the fireplace family circle of old and young. Stories of a first generation tragedy at sea gives rise to lyrical entertainment to soften, like time, the magnitude of loss.

Glee – The great storm is over -
Four – have recovered the Land -
Forty – gone down together -
Into the boiling Sand -

Ring – for the scant Salvation -
Toll – for the bonnie Souls -
Neighbor – and friend – and Bridegroom -
Spinning upon the Shoals -

How they will tell the Story -
When Winter shake the Door -
Till the Children urge -
But the Forty -
Did they – come back no more?

Then a silence – suffuse the story -
And a softness – the Teller’s eye -
And the Children – no further question -
And only the Sea – reply -

The four who are alive “have recovered the Land” in Dickinson’s story of forty who perished “Into the boiling Sand”. Boiling sand reminds me of recent deaths, perhaps thousands of victims, caused by tsunamis – earthquakes at sea – in Samoa, Sumatra and other parts of the Asia Pacific.  Of course there doesn’t need to be an earthquake for a storm at sea to appear so. This story may be inspired by the many Irish immigrants who worked in western Massachusetts in the 19th century. I say this because of the poem’s gentle commemoration in the words,  “Toll – for the bonnie Souls -”.

The four survivors, “the neighbor,” “the friend,” “the bridegroom” and “me.” For their progeny and other loved ones they are the only source of facts. Their experience tells us what to make of the tragedy. Is the neighbor like one of mine? A lady with a toothy smile, warm eyes, brown hair sliced with grey and slightly thick eyeglasses? She laughs so easily she tempts me to think I’m a comic.

And is the friend someone who doesn’t fit the stereotype? Uninterested in chit-chat, tall enough to be a basketball player but long hippy-like hair that balances and dramatizes his appearance somehow. A friend who is slow to get acquainted but loyal in the extreme once he has.

And the bridegroom? His fiance might have been one among “Forty – gone down together -”. Waiting to marry in America had been her idea. A mystical idea of happy beginnings, she had said. Who is the implied “I” who tells the tale? Does the brilliancy of the imagery mean I have survived? Or, do I remain obsessed with the unpredictability of fortune, relaying over and over in lyrics such as these its power to erase a human life?

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A Year, A Day, A Sloop, Slip Away

When I want to show someone how I feel toward them but don’t know what to say, “A Sloop of Amber slips away”, by Emily Dickinson demonstrates an alternative to wringing my hands. “Just look at what a day does in expressing its parting,” the poem implies.

A Sloop of Amber slips away
Upon an Ether Sea
And wrecks in peace a Purple Tar -
The Son of Ecstasy -

A sloop, a sailing vessel with a single mast set about one third of the boat’s length at or near or toward the stern of the bow, is a mighty lovely thing when watched from the shore. Instead of using flowery adjectives to describe a sunset, the poet draws on metaphysical elements of this time of day.  Erasure of time. Non-visible impacts of its loveliness. The day at its end, in amber colors, “slips away”.

The recipient of this poem can enjoy the subjectivity of loss and beauty and the interplay between the two as, in Dickinson’s poem, they are eternally combined “Upon an Ether Sea”.

Also, there is a tint of war’s claim on most sailing vessels of that era, “And wrecks in peace a Purple Tar -”. The instantaneous peacefulness we feel when viewing a gorgeous sunset breaks up, is wrecked, as quickly as it settles on us. For, we are tarred, trapped in the knowledge that it also means that it will never be again.

It is the going, the departure, that is “The Son of Ecstasy”.  The parting months of every year arrive with fall; the hours of every day with sunset, a sloop slips away, here, in a poignant dramatization of loss. These moments of bitter-sweet, and sometimes just plain bitter, are the offspring of ecstasy: that of love and being together.

Perhaps, too the recipient is one who is leaving. No heavy handed good-byes, here. Only the potential of the recipient of this poem to regard his or her move out of town, or of a deadly disease, or, simply of two friends growing apart. The demureness in the poem is as nature itself, which offers endless pictorial displays to say for us what we somehow fail to say.

I am too bold, I’m sure, to think Dickinson may have broken with her habit of not doing so, and given one of her poems a title: “Please accept a Sunset -”. I see in my book of historical recordings of the poet’s notes and other information gleaned when she left behind more than one version of various poems, (The Poems of Emily Dickinson variorum edition, edited by R.W. Franklin), that at least part of her intention in writing this poem was to send a gift to a friend or loved one. Dickinson’s introduction of her sentiment is expressed, when, as Franklin notes, “the poem was introduced with the request: ‘Please accept a Sunset -’ “.

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Lost Girls

It’s mostly typical these days for me to say, “What the heck do I do next?”

However, even lost girls may feel quite good, optimistic and positive about life in general, occasionally. Although I am confounded by a legal/personal crisis that I find myself in, “Did Our Best Moment last – ”, by Emily Dickinson, reflects my “heavenly mood” today.

Did Our Best Moment last -
‘Twould supersede the Heaven -
A few – and they by Risk – procure -
So this Sort – are not given -

Except as stimulants – in
Cases of Despair -
Or Stupor – The Reserve -
These heavenly moments are -

A Grant of the Divine -
That Certain as it Comes -
Withdraws – and leaves the dazzled Soul
In her unfurnished Rooms -

“A few” feelings of warmth and generosity toward friends and others encountered on a day-to-day basis include my urge to protect and care for just about everyone: “ – and they by Risk – procure – /So this Sort – are not given – Except as stimulants – in/Cases of Despair -”.

Ordinary interactions with others in everyday surroundings have developed into satisfactions, “Or Stupor – The Reserve -” that are missing when life presents little in the way of limits to my daily routine.

And these encounters will provide opportunities to grow and to enlarge my life. Or, “These heavenly moments are -/ A Grant of the Divine – /That Certain as it Comes -Withdraws -”. Then, I am back where the landscape of my thinking is caught within the barriers of my knowledge, resources and experience.  These newly confined limits of daily routine can actually become the vehicle for new chances and opportunities.

Unless I am again “the dazzled Soul” lost in my own “unfurnished Rooms -”.

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Precious Stones

When my mother was alive she was fond of saying, “keep your chin up,” if I happen to share with her the trouble or worry “du jour.”  Usually, I would make a joke of it and say, “If I do that I’ll stumble over a rock!” We would share a smile, or groan.

The challenges for me today, are to confront my problems without feelings of doubt and inadequacy. The lawsuit filed against me has me thinking trouble follows me no matter what. Emily Dickinson’s “’Tis little I – could care for Pearls -” reaffirms my belief that I am doing what I should be doing with my life. This little poem is a gilt-edge affirmation of the miracle of individuality.

‘Tis little I – could care for Pearls -
Who own the Ample sea -
Or Brooches – when the Emperor -
With Rubies – pelteth me -

Or Gold – who am the Prince of Mines -
Or Diamonds – when have I
A Diadem to fit a Dome -
Continual opon me -

It is such a temptation to feel hopelessness in the face of seemingly overwhelming odds these days by the necessity to “play lawyer” for myself. (I am being sued.)  The poem whispers that I “…own the Ample sea – / Or Brooches – when the Emperor – / With Rubies – pelts me – ”.

With the exception of one lawyer, I have received demoralizing advice about the legal circumstances I find myself in. But, I won’t cave in. “’Tis little I could care…/ for Diamonds – when have I / A Diadem to fit a Dome -”.

It feels like the underlying passion in the poem is compassion. Enough to free me to evaluate what I am doing, in my own terms. The poem embodies a determination to decide a course that is my own, not someone else’s. My life, my diadem, if you will, fits my head alone and it is “Continual opon me -”.

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When Does Imagination Become Illusion?

Now that I’ve decided to represent myself in the lawsuit against me, I’m going to need all the skill my genes allow to express ideas and feelings effectively. “Did you ever stand in a Cavern’s Mouth -” by Emily Dickinson, puts me squarely in mind to take a no-nonsense approach.

As always, in a pinch, I turn to Dickinson poems.

Did you ever stand in a Cavern’s Mouth -
Widths out of the Sun -
And look – and shudder, and block your breath -
And deem to be alone

In such a place, what horror,
How Goblin it would be -
And fly, as ’twere pursuing you?
Then Loneliness – looks so -

Did you ever look in a Cannon’s face -
Between whose Yellow eye -
And your’s – the Judgment intervened -
The Question of “To die” -

Extemporizing in your ear
As cool as Satyr’s Drums -
If you remember, and were saved
It’s liker so – it seems -

I have a pretty decent imagination. And, I express myself about as well as the next person. My thinking doesn’t qualify me for rocket science, but then all that left brain astro-physicists thinking never appealed to me anyway. This poem is a cautionary tale demanding its reader make a clear distinction between imagination and illusion. I fully recognize the possibility of illusion where representing myself is concerned. It’s just that I really don’t have the money to do otherwise.

The first two stanzas describe my feelings, using imagination to clarify.  Imagination gives the brain freedom to “look – and shudder, and block your breath -/ And deem to be alone”.

The third stanza takes on the judge’s role, “the Judgment intervened -”, although financial death is possible, “The Question of “To die” -” is an illusion. There is always the risk that the power of imagination will be used negatively; thereby creating illusion.

The poem cautions me, “Extemporizing in your ear/As cool as Satyr’s Drums -”, to subject all the ideas that come to me now to the test of time. (Is meditation a way to do this?) My big challenge is not only fine points of the law, but, to find out whether my answers to the summons, and the ideas/thoughts involved are of lasting value or just a fantasy of a moment. The difference is crucial: “If you remember, and were saved/It’s liker so – it seems -”.

Digest A Poem A Day – Accept What Comes Your Way

post script: anyone reading this post and the previous one, may be interested to know that I found a lawyer willing to reduce his fees and to represent me. For now, all is humming along nicely. Thank you for your interest.

Miscellaneous Enterprise – I’m Being Sued!

Having to create a balance between my own self-interests and other people’s interests is a real challenge. Usually I am mellow enough to make myself clear without causing a fight. In fact, people probably respect me for my honesty.

A few days ago I was served a summons from a court in my former state of residence in the South. Now, I have the unwelcome but perfect opportunity to demonstrate my conviction that poems by Emily Dickinson are an untapped resource to anyone in life-altering circumstances.

The first stanza of “From Cocoon forth a Butterfly” conjures a perfectly coiffed, Victorian a lady in dress of frills who emerges from her porch on a gorgeous day with no aim other than to go anywhere, and nowhere, as whim dictates. All manner of experience, and role permutations are portrayed in this rather long poem that ends with the decidedly unlovely fact of extinction.

From Cocoon forth a Butterfly
As Lady from her Door
Emerged – a Summer Afternoon -
Repairing Everywhere -

Without Design – that I could trace
Except to stray abroad
On miscellaneous Enterprise
The Clovers – understood -

Her pretty Parasol be seen
Contracting in a Field
Where Men made Hay -
Then struggling hard
With an opposing Cloud -

Where Parties – Phantom as Herself -
To Nowhere – seemed to go
In purposeless Circumference -
As ’twere a Tropic Show -

And notwithstanding Bee – that worked -
And Flower – that zealous blew -
This Audience of Idleness
Disdained them, from the Sky -

Till Sundown crept – a steady Tide -
And men that made the Hay -
And Afternoon – and Butterfly -
Extinguished – in the Sea -

Today, I begin the process of answering the summons on my own. I am not rich enough to hire a lawyer who wants $4,000 just to get started. I am almost as full of optimism as one who “Emerged – a Summer Afternoon – /Repairing Everywhere -”.

“The only Design – that I could trace” in my self representation is “to stray abroad”. The things I can see, “Where Men made Hay”, at my expense, like the legal system, a woman who has chosen to aim all her anger at me, and a thousand miles between me and the courts, may or may not render my enterprise a “purposeless Circumference – As ’twere a Tropic Show -”.

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