tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6649269377119884432024-03-14T00:31:42.513-05:00We play at PasteThis blog is dedicated to the poetic genius that was Emily Dickinson. Each day I will look at yet another aspect of her poetry or her life, sharing her poetry and reflections upon it.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.comBlogger74125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-3423986658151713112011-01-12T23:07:00.004-06:002011-01-12T23:11:15.052-06:00in memoriumEarlier today I learned about the passing of a dear mentor, Dr. Elaine Smokewood. She was truly a brilliant woman, and I had so much more I could have learned from her. She challenged me, in my writing and my thinking, and a majority of my literary thesis and on-going research into Emily Dickinson is because of her. She knew so much about the transcendentalists-- Emerson, Whitman & Thoreau-- as well as their contemporary writers like Hawthorne, Meville, and Dickinson.<br /><br />She has suffered much, and she lived her life with graciousness and dignity. It was a comfort to know that she passed in her sleep, and I hope it truly was in peace. My prayers go out to her family. I wish we could have know just a fraction more of her thoughts and research. The world of literary criticism lost a brilliant mind, and we lost a beautiful person.<br /><br />A friend of mine said it best when she simply stated "Thank you, Dr. Smokewood"possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-32827894196274774252010-11-16T22:47:00.004-06:002010-11-16T23:18:20.746-06:00How Many Flowers fail in Wood--<em>How many Flowers fail in Wood--<br />Or perish from the Hill--<br />Without the priviledge to know<br />That they are Beautiful--<br /><br />How many cast a nameless Pod<br />Opon the nearest Breeze--<br />Unconscious of the Scarlet Freight--<br />In bear to others eyes--<br />(F534)</em><br /><br />There is so much beauty around us, not only in the natural world but also in the people we pass each day on the street, the ones in the cubicles around us, in the grocery lines beside us, waiting in traffic behind us, sleeping the home across from ours. We pass by individuals with unique faces, finger prints, retinas, DNA. And yet it seems like more and more people struggle with self-esteem issues, with feelings of inadequacy, with body image issues. <br /><br />This poem addresses the physical world and the millions of plants, of flowers, that exist that will never be seen by a human eye. They are works of art, unique and beautiful. Not only are they beautiful, but they will go on to create more items of beauty.<br /><br />How often to are people just like those flowers, walking and living around us, and yet unseen for their beauty and uniqueness? What incredible gifts and passions have never been awakened, or are budding but were never truly noticed? <br /><br />How many dreams die, shiveled and untended? How many people are passed over because someone failed to really look at them, to really get to know them, to really become part of their beauty? They are the ones that fail, in the darkness of a cold forest, withou the priviledge of knowing their precious value. They will cast their pods, their legacies, again unseen and unnoticed. Isn't the flower in the woods, never seen by a human, just as beautiful and worthy as the one in the flower bed or florist's shop? Aren't those who are never noticed just as valuable as those who are? <br /><br />Maybe Dickinson is challenging her reader to step beyond the familiar, to appreciate the beauty around us but not stop there, not limit ourselves to what uniqueness we know. Instead, maybe it's time we started to look further, to seek out what hasn't been searched, to find what has never been found. Who do you know that needs to know they are beautiful? Do we know what we are throwing to the winds? Do we look where it lands and nurture it, bringing its beauty for others to see? Who do we invest in, and are we doing it intentionally?possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-34683191986110129272010-08-28T01:43:00.002-05:002010-08-28T01:52:33.469-05:00I stepped from Plank to Plank<em>I stepped from Plank to Plank<br />A slow and cautious way<br />The stars about my Head I felt<br />About my Feet the Sea--<br /><br />I knew not but the next<br />Would be my final inch--<br />This gave me that precarious Gait<br />Some call Experience<br />(F 926)</em><br /><br />There is something about experience that molds and shapes us. Many people have experiences that scar them, some that strenghen them. No matter how a person responds to the challenges of life, these challenges often etch themselves upon a life with long-range effects. Stretching a bit of meaning here, the stars and sea could be archetypes of, respectively, dreams/hopes and challenges/fears. Throughout history, the stars have inspired wishes and might just be the substance of what Dickinson terms "possiblity." No doubt growing up in New England Dickinson would have been at least somewhat familiar of the dangers and challenges of the sea. While she might not have travelled extensively, her imagination clearly works. Seas are uncertain and often untameable.<br /><br />This persona speaks of "planks," upon which he or she steps. Perhaps it is the speaker's desire to stay grounded, or possibly it is a symbol of man attemping to lay out structure or stability to an uncertain life. (to be continued)possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-31437501204095227252010-04-27T23:01:00.004-05:002010-04-27T23:39:25.273-05:00I dwell in PossibilityWith 1,789 poems in her body of work, it's almost impossible to choose a single favorite. I almost hesitate to say one is my "favorite" when I have read only a small fraction of Dickinson's poetry. And yet... <em>I dwell in Possibility</em> is my favorite, and I never expected to write about it in my blog because it has so much meaning to me. It's a part of how I view the world, or at least how I try to view the world. I have the title of the poem on a board on my wall, white letters on purple and situated where it is visible from my bedroom doorway and from my bed where I write.<br /><br />My ideal for myself is to truly live in "possibility" where I don't place limits on myself. Everyone says "think outside the box," but I think part of what Dickinson is trying to say in this poem is to LIVE outside the box. To me, this poem is about all of the grand and terrifying things that can exist beyond the constraints we put ourselves under. Is it scary to live trying to reach past what is taught and what is tangible? Absolutely. But why do we accept restrictions simply because it's what everyone says? This weekend I was at an amusement park, and I saw a group wearing tshirts with a quote I'd never seen before. I wanted a shirt immediate because they read: "Don't tell me the sky's the limit when there are footprints on the moon!" I think that's at least a part of Dickinson's message in this poem:<br /><br /><em>I dwell in Possibility--<br />A fairer House than Prose--<br />More numerous of Windows--<br />Superior-- for Doors--<br /><br />Of Chambers as the Cedars--<br />Impregnable of eye--<br />And for an everlasting Roof<br />The Gambrels of the Sky--<br /><br />Of Visitors-- the fairest--<br />For Occupation-- This--<br />The spreading wide my narrow Hands<br />To gather Paradise--<br />(F 466)<br /></em><br /><br />While I have read this poem again and again, what stood out this time was that Dickinson's persona does not claim to dwell in poetry. Rather, she chooses to live in "Possibility." The reason for this is, I believe, also the reason why she did not choose to publish her work. Higginson constantly suggested editing to her poetry, seemingly trying to align it with the more conventional standards of poetry. Dickinson's poems are disjointed, the lines vary in length of syllables, and she relies heavily on slant rhyme and enjambment. To a traditional editor, these poems are a mess and hardly worth the title of "poem," but Dickinson crafts each word and phrase. She weilds language like a surgeon with a blade, severing and transplanting, exposing and flaying. <br /><br />"Poetry" to Dickinson likely meant the careful rules and regulations of verse, following meter, rhyme scheme, and never daring to live in a place so uncertain as a mere possiblity. One of my lit professors, Dr. Elaine Smokewood, loves to say that Dickinson breaks language in her poetry. It is true that Dickinson takes words and their meanings and twists and morphs them, sometimes even breaking them into different parts to create an experience or emotion that is experience through the poem. I believe the decision to choose "possibility" over "poetry" reflects the exponentially larger opportunities that the former word details. Possiblity opens up those windows and doors, lifts the roof to everlasting, and might just stretch beyond the sky. Even in the consideration of possibility, the persona will not be limited to mere "poetry," and she will certainly not be constrained by a narrow definition of what poetry could be. Rather, it is all things, all possibilities, imagined and not yet imagined, plausible and implausible, possible and impossible-- all of these waiting to be gathered by even the most narrow of hands.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-15540448409744196712010-04-18T00:13:00.002-05:002010-04-18T00:28:18.225-05:00It bloomed and dropt, a Single NoonI never expected to write about this particular poem because I covered it in my master's thesis, "Emily Dickinson: Parables in Poetry." That said, today I came across this poem again, and I found something in it that I had not realized before, something relating to the concept of parable and its function in this poem.<br /><br /><em>It bloomed and dropt, a Single Noon<br />The Flower-- distinct and Red--<br />I, passing, thought another Noon<br />Another in it's stead<br /><br />Will equal glow, and thought no more<br />But came another Day<br />To find the Species disappeared--<br />The Same Locality--<br /><br />The Sun in place-- no other fraud<br />On Nature's perfect Sum--<br />Had I but lingered Yesterday--<br />Was my retrieveless blame--<br /><br />Much Flowers of this and further Zones<br />Have perished in my Hands<br />For seeking it's Resemblance--<br />But unapproached it stands--<br /><br />The single Flower of the Earth<br />That I, in passing by<br />Unconscious was-- Great Nature's Face<br />Passed infinite by Me--</em><br /><br />This poem laments the loss of a flower, one which is unique and can never be reproduced. And yet, the speaker in the poem reproduces this flower for the reader. The gone blossom is, ironically, never truly retrieveless. Through the recreation of the flower and the parallel creation of a thing of beauty (namely the poem itself), the speaker re-creates his or her own situation. In parable form, the reader has a choice in response. He or she can blithely read the words and think something like "oh, how sad that that person didn't see such a lovely flower. Too bad. Nice poem," and move on with life, failing to recognize the power of the poem. This sort of reader remains completely unware, largely lacking self-awareness.<br /><br />Or, the astute reader can understand what the poet is doing, or at least understand it on a subconscious level. While he or she may not be completely aware that he or she is taking part in the poem, the words and the message of the poem. The reader can realize that we are surrounded by the everyday miracles-- moments which are unique and common but each special in its own way. Moments which can never be recreated, except in memory. Thus, the parable extends the experience beyond the page, beyond the encounter of the speaker. The audience who chooses to be open now joins the exeperience and journeys into his or her own unique encounter. This encounter is rare and yet, paradoxically, an everyday encounter. It is to be cherished and remembered, for the great face of nature passes by in every moment of our lives if we would only open our eyes to see.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-90554019911601887712010-03-18T19:07:00.003-05:002010-03-18T19:26:26.505-05:00The Secret Life of Emily DickinsonNo, I haven't abandoned my blog. I finished reading Jerome Charyn's <em>The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson</em> last night, and I have to say that I was a bit disappointed by it. Originally I was entranced, but that quickly ended as I realized how fictional Charyn's Dickinson truly is. <br /><br />I think we all create our own Emily Dickinson, that there is no possible way to ever know who and what she was, at least not accurately. Even her own family members have created their own versions of Dickinson, created in their own images. In this vein, Charyn has every right to write her as he sees fit. <br /><br />My greatest objections to this book is that he creates too timid a Dickinson, one who cowers before man after man, depending on each to define herself. For the purely fictional Tom the handyman, she is an angel, she is her father's Dolly, then a deserter's Daisy, and Judge Lord's Jumbo. Her only slight definition of herself for herself is as the kangaroo, but for much of the novel, she seems very little of Emily Dickinson. <br /><br />Surprisingly little is mentioned of her writing; it is hardly even mentioned in the first half of the novel. When it is brought slightly more into focus, it is presented as an attack on the poet-- sudden lightening that leaves her grasping and stunned. Just as she is defined only by the men in the novel, she is presented as a victim of her poetry. Yes, Charyn grasps the poet's love of the sudden words of poetry that come to her, but the event always seems violent and borders on destructive. <br /><br />Additionally, I felt that it was belittling to Dickinson when Charyn addressed the poet's affinity for white dress. In his novel, he chose to attribute this to the death of her beloved dog. While no doubt Dickinson may have dearly loved her dog, it seems rather ridiculous to establish the pet's death as her reason for forever after wearing white alone.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-43257133068298834652010-01-13T23:58:00.005-06:002010-01-14T00:22:57.694-06:00Bring me the sunset in a cup (pt1)<em>Bring me the sunset in a cup--<br />Reckon the morning's flagon's up<br />And say how many Dew--<br />Tell me how far the morning leaps--<br />Tell me what time the weaver sleeps<br />Who spun the breadths of blue!<br /><br />Write me how many notes there be<br />In the new Robin's extasy<br />Among astonished boughs--<br />How many trips the Tortoise makes--<br />How many cups the Bee partakes--<br />The Debauchee of Dews!</em><br />(first two stanzas #140)<br /><br />This poem is dated by Franklin at 1830, meaning the poet wrote it when she was 29-30 years old. Anyone familiar with classic poetry might mistake it, at first read, for a poem by John Donne. The persona in this poem is demanding, exact and bold. It is a deviation from the circuitous poetry typical of Dickinson, but the strong nature images begin to give her away, along with the common charged Dickinson language: extasy & Debauchee. <br /><br />This is not the shy doormouse that so many make of Dickinson, nor is it a ghost in white flitting about nature. The speaker in this poem gives a glimpse of a poet who was insatiably curious, always wondering "Why" and "How" at a point in her life when most adults were content with "because." The endless questions, of which above poem is only half, show the child's mind that thirsts and thirsts, craving more than can ever be known. Perhaps there is an imperious tone in the beginning, demanding the sunset in a cup and making use of the conceit. And yet this was Dickinson, who could find a sunset in a cup. Perhaps she is not asking the reader to bring a sunset to her, but challenging her reader to find the sunset in the cup for himself (or herself).possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-11941610602741740882010-01-11T00:38:00.004-06:002010-01-11T00:39:38.244-06:00Coming back!It's a new year, and after taking off to study up only to get distracted, get busy with Christmas, and go a good round with bronchitis, it's time to start again...<br /><br />and new blogging is coming up. I'm back tomorrow, and my goal is to return again to daily blogging.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-43298517679116137552009-11-08T23:51:00.004-06:002009-11-08T23:57:30.290-06:00I was the slightest in the House<em>I was the slightest in the House--<br />I took the smallest Room--<br />At night, my little Lamp, and Book--<br />And one Geranium<br /><br />So stationed I could catch the mint<br />That never ceased to fall--<br />And just my Basket--<br />Let me think-- I'm sure<br />That this was all--<br /><br />I never spoke-- unless addressed--<br />And then, 'twas brief and low--<br />I could not bear to live-- aloud--<br />The Racket shamed me so--<br /><br />And if it had not been so far--<br />And any one I knew<br />Were going-- I had often thought<br />How noteless-- I could die--<br />(F 473)</em><br /><br />working on my thoughts on this one... back later with commentary.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-16703590374467172992009-11-06T23:26:00.004-06:002009-11-06T23:37:38.260-06:00The Future never spoke (pt 2)This poem is a sharp reminder of the mystery that is the future. It is something that many writers have grappled with, trying to sort through views of the future through a lens like Christianity or other religions which contain a divine order, as some see it, or what others perceive as deism, wherein a God created but then stepped back to no longer intervene and watch what unfolds. Some writers, like some of Shakespeare's plays, reference the wheel of fate and its cruel impulsiveness. Dickinson's speaker seems to take a rather athiestic approach, disregarding anything as mystical as prophecy as he or she declares that no one can know the future. For this speaker, not even the hint of the smallest sign will give away that lies a year, a month, a week, a day, an hour, or even a minute ahead.<br /><br />Life happens unpredictably in this poem. In the second stanza, when the time arrives, what happens simply happens, leaving everyone to scramble to react and adapt. The future careens into the present, "Forestalling Preparation" and leaving man with little choice but to adapt. There is no "substitute" for the future or for the one experiencing. Man does not choose his joys nor his sorrows. And the future, fate or otherwise, remains indifferent to the human condition. The future remains exacting, "His Office but to execute", with no emotion, what fate dictates. There is a stoicism in the poem, an edge that is void of sympathy. In the end, this poem is the ultimate in "open endings" for the poem is left wide for the reader to interpret and to agree or disagree with both Dickinson and the speaker. And at the very literal text level, the poem in itself is wide open, lacking an ending and unknowing what fate awaits it-- to be remembered, to be forgotten among many other poems and pages, to continue, to end.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-17624645004684461562009-11-05T23:36:00.004-06:002009-11-05T23:54:45.663-06:00The Future never spoke<em>The Future never spoke--<br />Nor will he like the Dumb<br />Reveal by sign a Syllable<br />Of his profound To Come--<br /><br />But when the News be ripe<br />Presents it in the Act--<br />Forestalling Preparation--<br />Escape-- or Substitute--<br /><br />Indifferent to him<br />The Dower-- as the Doom--<br />His Office but to execute<br />Fate's Telegram-- to Him--</em><br />(F 638)possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-35358317191097052542009-11-03T23:21:00.004-06:002009-11-03T23:53:31.050-06:00How many schemes may die<em>How many schemes may die</em><br /><em>In one short Afternoon</em><br /><em>Entirely unknown</em><br /><em>To those they most concern--</em><br /><em>The man that was not lost</em><br /><em>Because by accident</em><br /><em>He varied by a Ribbon's width</em><br /><em>From his accustomed route--</em><br /><em>The Love that would not try</em><br /><em>Because beside the Door</em><br /><em>Some unsuspecting Horse was tied</em><br /><em>Surveying his Despair</em><br /><em>(F 1326)</em><br /><em></em><br />There are so many things that happen, seemingly by chance, that alter lives and expectations. It was Robert Burns who wrote "The best laid schemes of mice and men oft go awry, and leave us nothing but grief and pain for promised joy." In this particular poem, a person may have planned the ruin of another, in the case of the man walking along the road. The death of the man in the road was avoided when the man, ignorant of his danger, changed his normal route by the slightest bit. Certainly the one who schemed against him was thwarted, this person's plans dying in the short afternoon, the failure of the plan to kill another dying unbeknowst to the planner.<br /><br />The poem reads as if this man, who narrowly missed his death, is the very one whose own route was changed by the appearance of a horse at the doorway. The implication appears to be that this man was visiting his beloved, perhaps wife or sweetheart or lover, to find another's animal tied out front. Seeing this unexpected horse, Dickinson's poem implies that the man would not try to love or pursue his love. In this way, the man's plans were additionally thwarted. Perhaps this beloved was not unfaithful, perhaps the original schemer wished to drive a wedge between the man and his love. The beloved's plans of love and a future or continued future with her lover could equally have been thwarted, all unknown to her.<br /><br />and... it's entirely possible that I have completely misinterpreted this poem.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-64016088828594157642009-11-02T22:46:00.002-06:002009-11-02T23:12:49.445-06:00That sacred Closet when you sweep<em>That sacred Closet when you sweep--</em><br /><em>Entitled "Memory"--</em><br /><em>Select a reverential Broom--</em><br /><em>And do it silently--</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>'Twill be a Labor of surprise--</em><br /><em>Besides Identity</em><br /><em>Of other Interlocutors</em><br /><em>A probablity--</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>August the Dust of that Domain--</em><br /><em>Unchallenged-- let it lie--</em><br /><em>You cannot supercede itself,</em><br /><em>But it can silence you.</em><br /><em>(F 1385)</em><br /><em></em><br />I believe that Dickinson kept her poems with the intent of publishing them someday, and I believe that she thought that in publication she might be able to continue to live through her work, continue to speak through poetry in a way that only she can. Memory was sacred to Dickinson, and her closeness to her family and the poetry that seems to so closely resemble her personal losses and triumphs only supports this conclusion. <br /><br />It is no suprise that Dickinson's speaker describes memory as a "sacred closet" in disarray. Certainly our memories have no set order to them. Some things are near the surface, others buried deep, down under piles and piles. Some memories are useful and others are a distraction or impediment. The "labor of surprise" comes when one uncovers that memory that has been allocated to the back corner, dust-covered but not entirely forgotten. <br /><br />For someone as unafraid of confrontation as Dickinson, it may surprise the reader to reach line ten in which the speaker warns "Unchallenged-- let it die", in reference the dust upon the memories. Perhaps this is because some memories, though briefly recalled and dusted off to be considered again, will only be quickly forgotten once more. On the other hand, the speaker could be implying that disturbing the dust upon these memories will only stir up problems or more work and that some things are better left alone. Again, Dickinson leaves much of the exact interpretation ambiguous, allowing her readers to draw their own conclusions that reflect their own selves and experiences.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-54824181968735685972009-10-31T16:42:00.003-05:002009-10-31T17:10:02.298-05:00Witchcraft was hung, in History,It was the closests I could find to fit halloween with witches and all that? Okay, arguably "One need not be a chamber to be haunted" might have been more fitting, but I chose this instead...<br /><br /><em>Witchcraft was hung, in History,</em><br /><em>But History and I</em><br /><em>Find all the Witchcraft that we need</em><br /><em>Around us, Every Day--</em><br /><em>(F 1612)</em><br /><em></em><br />Likely the allusion to witchcraft refers to the Salem Witch trials in New England. No doubt Dickinson was very familiar with the history of these trials and how many were suspected of witchcraft and, subsequently, hanged for the perceived crime. Many people like to think that such incidents are isolated in history, happening only rarely and then fading out of practice. Through this poem, however, Dickinson's speaker implies a reversal of the meaning of "witchcraft." <br /><br />The speaker claims that both the speaker and history "find all the witchcraft that we need / Around us, Every Day", but this leaves the conclusion for the reader to draw for him or herself. Many readers might intepret this poem to mean that "witchcraft" continues in many forms, that it never dies out. This interpretation of the word might mean the casting of spells, good or especially bad, or it could refer to trouble-making, spreading of fear, and suspicious acts. Anything dark or mysterious could be included in this interpretation. And yes, no doubt, such things do continue to happen.<br /><br />And yet another reading could draw an entirely different conclusion. Perhaps what Dickinson was directing her speaker to imply is that maybe those who think they are preventing evil or the dark from this perceived "witchcraft," perhaps they are the very ones who are committing true witchcraft. Perhaps their destructive or suspicious deeds are the ways they go about spreading the fear among neighbors, scaring those around them with their accusations and making everyone fear what lies around the corner or in the next home. Maybe the doubt and rumors are far more destructive than any spell or hex.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-37831435487391352212009-10-30T23:28:00.001-05:002009-10-30T23:37:06.717-05:00What I can do-- I will ... pt2Continuing an analysis of the poem in the last entry...<br /><br />The third and fourth lines that compose this very small poem explore the ability of imagination to go beyond limitations or restrictions. Interestingly enough, "that I cannot" is not unknown to the speaker. There is a realism in this statement, in that the speaker understands that he or she may encounter things which may be insurmountable. At the same time, the speaker refuses to let possiblity know that limitations exist. In this poem is an example of self-suggestion, or being conscious of the thoughts and expressions the persona voices. <br /><br />The speaker is committed to giving everything he or she has, to going as far as humanly possible. He or she will not allow negative comments or thoughts to be voiced or expressed, and in making this decision many obstacles have already been overcome. The speaker builds faith within the self, speaking possiblity and nuturing it in thought before anything can happen in deed. This poem speaks to the abilities that the human mind has to conquer, proving that much that might seem impossible can be accomplished once the decisions is made that it can happen. Failure is "Unknown to possiblity", and the speaker puts himself or herself at a marked advantage before even starting to explore what great or what little is possible.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-36611229366940678842009-10-28T23:51:00.003-05:002009-10-29T00:16:23.582-05:00What I can do-- I will<em>What I can do-- I will--</em><br /><em>Though it be little as a Daffodil--</em><br /><em>That I cannot-- must be</em><br /><em>Unknown to possiblity--</em><br /><em>(F 641)</em><br /><em></em><br />This poem explores the potenetial that each person posseses. There is a firmness to the persona's affirmation that "What I can do-- I will". The amount of potential is uncertain, but the speaker displays a great amount of determination that, no matter the limitations, he or she will do everything possible. Dickinson's speaker begs the question <em>What is as little as a daffodil?</em> Perhaps the daffodil merely exists to look pretty and smell lovely and inspire a lover or poet. It still has value, even if much of its value might be labelled aesthetic or even trivial. To the beloved, the flower is a symbol of affection and thoughfulness, and that in itself can be greater than even a gem.<br /><br />Second half of the poem to be continued in the next blog...possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-56609117586436552292009-10-27T23:42:00.003-05:002009-10-27T23:54:42.136-05:00If I can stop one Heart from breaking<em>If I can stop one heart from breaking</em><br /><em>I shall not live in vain</em><br /><em>If I can ease one Life the Aching</em><br /><em>Or cool one Pain</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Or help one fainting Robin</em><br /><em>Unto his Nest again</em><br /><em>I shall not live in vain.</em><br /><em>(F 982)</em><br /><em></em><br />At the heart of this poem is the longing for purpose, the search for significance. Purpose is not always found in the earth-moving or phenomenal acts of greatness on an epic level. The root of purpose can be found in the most basic, every-day decisions. It begins with the smallest of acts when no one is watching or would care. These silent, otherwise unknown acts are the foundations upon which all the rest of one's character is built. <br /><br />This speaker desperately seeks to make an imprint upon another, to make even the smallest difference. It is the echo of Mother Teresa's famous line: "Kindness is a language we all understand. Even the blind can see it and the deaf can hear it." The smallest gift of kindness can reap exponential rewards, can begin a chain reaction. But that chain must begin somewhere, and the speaker in this poem asserts that it will begin with him or her. Without a purpose, some might argue without a meaningful purpose, life becomes an unbearable burden and loses its meaning.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-25597397572509825672009-10-26T23:45:00.003-05:002009-10-27T00:13:08.280-05:00The words the happy say<em>The words the happy say</em><br /><em>Are paltry melody</em><br /><em>But those the silent feel</em><br /><em>Are beautiful--</em><br /><em>(F 1767)</em><br /><em></em><br />Again Dickinson demonstrates her ability to invert the reader's expectations and, in doing so, present a stunningly accurate and peculiar paradox of human nature. Many people have the tendency to speak of things that surpass a description. Perhaps they are not comfortable with silence, or perhaps they do not feel the fullness of the moment. No matter the reason, many people are not comfortable with silence-- they do not know how to let it be, that sometimes silence speaks far more than language. <br /><br />A person witnessing something especially moving might have words that come to his or her mind, and yet when those words are spoken they seem to cheapen the moment. The enchantment of the event or emotions are often broken when the word is said. And yet some can think of the words that come to mind and can <em>feel</em> the words, in their very fullest, experiencing them in a way that surpasses merely mentioning the word. It is the difference between talking about a breath and taking one of those deep breaths that begin at the very bottom of the lungs, feeling the chest fully expand, taking in the wonderousness that is oxygen, the most essential need to continue life. <br /><br />It is particularly fitting that Dickinson would write a poem about the fullness of silence. For a person who did not socialize much beyond her family and who filled the night hours alone in her room with a pen and paper, she knew silence well. She knew the awe and beauty of it, and she understood it in a way that many cannot grasp.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-64785927927389540652009-10-25T23:52:00.003-05:002009-10-26T00:46:08.961-05:00This dirty-- little-- Heart<em>This dirty-- little-- Heart</em><br /><em>Is freely mine--</em><br /><em>I won it with a Bun--</em><br /><em>A freckled shrine</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>But eligibility fair</em><br /><em>To him who sees</em><br /><em>The Visage of the Soul</em><br /><em>And not the knees.</em><br /><em>(F 1378)</em><br /><br />There is a child-like simplicity in this poem, one that looks to the imporant things beyond sraped knees and finds beauty and joy. The opening lines of a "dirty-- little-- Heart" surprise the reader by inverting the reader's expectations. There is no pure heart, no courtly love or lofty intentions. The prize of love is not a magnanimous deed or heroic act, but rather is a "bun"-- common place. Dickinson draws out the theme of love found in the everyday, rooted deeper than appearances.<br /><br />Love is not based upon looks or first impressions. Perhaps the overlooked knees were dirty from time spent in a hothouse tending plants, or perhaps they were scraped from stumbles while wandering through fields. Love looks beyond these things, peering into the very essences-- the soul. The one who loves peers beyond the superficial and lookes out through the perspective of the core of the one who is loved. To borrow a phrase from a friend: We don't love people because they are beautiful; people are beautiful because we love them.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-25055990490969607522009-10-22T23:28:00.004-05:002009-10-22T23:42:03.540-05:00Not what We did, shall be the test<em>Not what We did, shall be the test</em><br /><em>When Act and Will are done</em><br /><em>But what Our Lord infers We would</em><br /><em>Had We diviner been--</em><br /><em>(F 972)</em><br /><em></em><br />This poem displays a great deal of mistrust in religion and deity. Much of it can, arguably, stem from Dickinson's frustrations with especially the Calvinists and earlier Puritan influences. This speaker clearly has issues with the "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" type of teachings-- the idea that God's eagle eye is ever on the search to spot the slightest slip up and thunder down gloom and doom and despair. There is a strong sense that the speaker feels one can never measure up to God's expectations. He or she believes each person will be held to an impossible standard, namely what they could have achieved if they had been more pious. <br /><br />All the good and even selfless acts of a lifetime will be, this speaker seems to believe, wiped out in an instant. It is as though he or she sees the scales as hopelessly weighted in such a way that no one can win. Ultimately this speaker feels that goodness must equal perfection, and as perfection is unattainable, God can never be pleased. It is a highly cynical view and could very well reflect Dickinson's personal feelings. At the very least, if this poem is her commentary on the Christian religion and her struggles with it, I feel like I have to give her at least credit for her sheer honesty. She was very frank about her feelings regarding faith and religion, and her struggle was open in her poetry at least.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-8886398980456645692009-10-21T23:17:00.003-05:002009-10-21T23:52:13.453-05:00The Luxury to apprehendWhen people think about the poetry of Emily Dickinson, they so often think of her as the nature poet or as the flat-out confusing poet. She is not readily associated with love poetry, and certainly her poems are nothing like a Shakespearean or Donne sonnet, nor do they bear much obvious resemblance to something like Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poems. And yet some of Dickinson's poems are powerful and evocative love poems, though often in an almost obsessive way, fully consumed by the beloved or longing to be consumed by the beloved. Her language is highly charged, highly passionate.<br /><br />Dickinson scholar Brenda Wineapple writes about Dickinson's relationships, and she makes mention of this intensity that the poet possessed. Relationships were intense and Dickinson took them seriously, from her true friendships through what some speculate might be love relationships, though there is great ambiguity concerning any lovers Dickinson may have had. Her poems are, to borrow phrases from the poem below, of the "epicure" and are fully laden with "sumptuousness supplies". Excess and lavishness are the course, parting from courtly admiration in favor of pure extravagance-- extravagance sharply contrasted with the precise and yet concise lanuage of Dickinson:<br /><br /><em>The Luxury to apprehend</em><br /><em>The Luxury 'twould be</em><br /><em>To look at thee a single time</em><br /><em>An Epicure of me</em><br /><em>In whatsoever presences makes</em><br /><em>Till for a further food</em><br /><em>I scarcely recollect to starve</em><br /><em>So first am I supplied.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The Luxury to meditate</em><br /><em>The Luxury it was</em><br /><em>To banquet on they Countenance</em><br /><em>A sumptuousness supplies</em><br /><em>To plainer Days whose Table, far</em><br /><em>As Certainty can see</em><br /><em>Is laden with a single Crumb--</em><br /><em>The Consciousness of thee--</em><br /><em>(F 819)</em>possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-84050334628511227592009-10-20T00:25:00.004-05:002009-10-21T00:45:05.972-05:00The Clouds their Backs together laid<em>The Clouds their Backs together laid</em><br /><em>The North began to push</em><br /><em>The Forests galloped till they fell</em><br /><em>The Lightening played like mice</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The Thunder crumbled like a stuff</em><br /><em>How good to be in Tombs</em><br /><em>Where nature's Temper cannot reach</em><br /><em>Nor missle ever comes</em><br /><em>(F 1246)</em><br /><em></em><br />Started 10/19 and continued 10/20...<br />This poem vividly depicts the wild forces of nature unleashed upon the earth. There is a sense of opposition as the clouds stand "their backs together laid" and the north "began to push". Immediately Dickinson creates struggle as the powers of nature build and unleash themselves upon the world below. The forests "fell" and the lightening wreaks its danger "like mice." There is a powerful carelessness in the abilities of nature. Nature does not care about damage that might be done, nor about the panic it induces upon anything below. It is self-centered and self-pleasing in its abandon.<br /><br />And yet, nature cannot touch the speaker. He or she is safe "in Tombs / Where nature's temper cannot reach." There is a large sense of irony in this statement from the speaker, because while he or she is safe from the wild danger of nature and its fury, it remains that the speaker is dead. One theme that can be derived from this poem is that safety has its sacrifices. To be safe from the looming clouds and the pouring rain and careless thunder, one also gives up the chance to see the glory of a sunset or the hallowed morning of fresh fallen snow or the riotous splendor of first spring or the fiery blaze of autumn harvest. There is a sense of give and take, and while there is security from the unpredictable forces above, the tomb is for the dead.possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-1483641331405037482009-10-16T22:44:00.003-05:002009-10-16T23:18:57.853-05:00My Wars are laid away in Books<em>My Wars are laid away in Books--</em><br /><em>I have one Battle more--</em><br /><em>A Foe whom I have never seen</em><br /><em>But oft has scanned me o'er--</em><br /><em>And hesitated me between</em><br /><em>And others at my side,</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>But chose the best-- Neglecting me-- till</em><br /><em>All the rest have died--</em><br /><em>How sweet if I am not forgot</em><br /><em>By Chums that passed away--</em><br /><em>Since Playmates at threescore and ten</em><br /><em>Are such a scarcity--</em><br /><em>(F 1578)</em><br /><br />This poem is a good example of the unexpected reversals found in Dickinson's work. The poem begins rather vaguely, about wars "laid away in books," using the enigmatic language that either has the reader intrigued or utterly confused (or both). The reader is told that this final war is between the speaker and a foe that chose others while leaving her behind. All signs point to death as this foe, a sort of grim reaper in contrast to other poems which personify death as a gentleman. Death in this poem is random or calculating, a separating force. There is a sense of respect for death, for the speaker claims that death has previously "chose best" in selecting others to take.<br /><br />The unexpected reversal comes in the second part of this poem, when the persona claims in lines 9-12 that it will be "sweet" if s/he is not forgotten by those who have already passed away because playmates are so hard to find in older age. Typically the reader would think of the person still living, such as the speaker, as the person who would remember those who have passed on. In the second half of this poem Dickinson inverts this expectation. Here, the speaker longs for the dead playmates to remember him or her. <br /><br />Dickinson, through her speaker, expresses the loneliness of being the survivor. Rather than feeling that the deceased are lonely in their graves or perhaps missing the companionship of a lost friend, this speaker feels personal loneliness and expressed a desire to be united in friendship beyond death again. Perhaps Dickinson is implying that this final war the speaker must face-- the war with death-- is already won because there is no fear or regret in the speaker's mind?possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-70691105906854783322009-10-14T23:52:00.004-05:002009-10-15T00:02:23.375-05:00Morning is due to all (cont)Now that I'm not falling asleep typing and, hopefully, the words are not missing letters, I'm continuing the last entry...<br /><br />I feel like some of Dickinson's point in writing this poem is to point out that everyone has a beginning, or a morning. We are given hundreds of starts, literally as each day begins and figuratively with each opportunity that comes our way. The night, or completion, only comes to some. There are those who do not see the end of the day-- those who die unexpectedly or who do not see the end of the opportunities they were given. Some see the "night" or conclusion to hopes and dreams. But some do not. <br /><br />At the end of this poem lies the rare Auroral Light. It is something that a very small percentage of the world gets to see, and I would think that it would be a thing of wonder and even rarer a sight in Dickinson's time. Today there is a large percentage of the world that will never see the aurora, and I believe that Dickinson uses this as a metaphor for those who never see the miraculous or the rare. So many people live ordinary lives, perhaps even content but never aware of what the amazing and unique experiences that lie just beyond them. Some are aware of such things, but some people have no interest in pursuing them. Likewise, others are aware of things like the auroral light but have so convinced themselves that it is an experience they will never have or deserve.<br /><br />Morning, night, and the auroral light are possiblities of everyone. There is potential to reach each thing. And how few people actually pursue beyond the morning? I think there is a lesson in greatness found in this poem. Dickinson leaves this poem with an open thought for the reader. Namely, which do we pursue or find: morning, night or auroral light? Are we content with what we experience? And what more could there be, waiting for us to recognize as an opportunity and waiting to be experienced as miraculous?possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664926937711988443.post-29364721534561810152009-10-13T23:57:00.004-05:002009-10-14T23:38:34.570-05:00Morning is due to all<em>Morning is due to all--</em><br /><em>To some-- the Night--</em><br /><em>To an imperial few--</em><br /><em>The Auroral Light--</em><br /><em>(F 1621)</em><br /><em></em><br />Dickinson often writes about the theme of exclusivity or society's qualifications for what is exclusive and special. This theme is one that Dickinson carried into many of her poems, typically giving control to the person least expected to have power. Wineapple's book <em>White Heat</em> includes several comments about the feeling of superiority that the Dickinson's family held, and it seems as if some of Dickinson's hesitancy to edit and publish might be tied to the idea that she did not want the other townspeople, or her schoolmates, to have access to the intensely private world of the Dickinson family.<br /><strong>TO BE FINISHED WEDNESDAY</strong>possibilityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01952703693000900046noreply@blogger.com0