That sacred Closet when you sweep

That sacred Closet when you sweep--
Entitled "Memory"--
Select a reverential Broom--
And do it silently--

'Twill be a Labor of surprise--
Besides Identity
Of other Interlocutors
A probablity--

August the Dust of that Domain--
Unchallenged-- let it lie--
You cannot supercede itself,
But it can silence you.
(F 1385)

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.

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.

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.

Not what We did, shall be the test

Not what We did, shall be the test
When Act and Will are done
But what Our Lord infers We would
Had We diviner been--
(F 972)

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.

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.

Over the fence

Over the fence--
Strawberries-- grow--
Over the fence--
I could climb-- if I tried, I know--
Berries are nice!

But-- if I stained my Apron--
God would certainly scold!
Oh, dear,-- I guess if He were a Boy--
He'd-- climb-- if He could!
(F 271)

This is one of those poems that I chanced upon, finding it only when I opened my anthology and looked at the first poem I saw. It seems to me that I find some of my favorite Dickinson poems this way, and today was not an exception.

I love when Dickinson writes about the limitations that we put on ourselves-- the impositions of society and our own guilt and self-made obligations to conformity. The possiblity of a stain upon the apron can be symbolic of the potential stain upon one's reputation. As one critic wrote, much of Dickinson's poetry hinges on the balance between the actual and the hoped for.

There are gender issues here, and it is open for feminist criticism. I suppose Freudian interpretation would make it that way, emphasizing the erotic in the berry and desire to act upon the suppressed desire. And feminist criticism could take issue with the Eve complex. The boy can hop the fence of propriety, sow his wild oats, and hop back into the good graces of all. Again the societal limitations become the theme of this poem, trapping the speaker in her corseted traditional role-- stifled and suppressed.

Death is a Dialogue between

Death is a Dialogue between
The Spirit and the Dust.
"Dissolve" says Death,
The Spirit "Sir
I have another Trust"--

Death doubts it--
Argues from the Ground--
The Spirit turns away
Just laying off for evidence
An Overcoat of Clay.
(F 973)

Much of Dickinson's poetry casts the religion of Amherst and her family into doubt. She never made peace with the Christian view of her family, although through her poetry she struggles time and time again with issues of faith and belief. Specific answers as to what Dickinson believed or put her faith in is unknown-- she took that secret to the grave with her. It does seem, through her poetry, that she did believe in an afterlife or some existence beyond death. She also has a firm trust in the idea that people consist of body and soul and that the soul is eternal.

This poem is one of the closer hints that readers have at a profession of belief or assurance of some sort of faith. It's mystical, unclear and sort of like a statement a deist or even agnostic might make. If Dickinsons belongs in any specific "belief" category I would be tempted to put her in the "agnostic" column, because she seems to think that God might exist but really doubts that a personal relationship with him is possible.

All that aside, the speaker's description of the "overcoat of clay" and shedding that coat for a "another trust" is one of the most beautiful metaphors for the end of mortality and the eternal state of the soul found in poetry. Interestingly enough, death is never fearful or the winner in Dickinson's poetry. Death is personified as a gentleman at times, sneaky and sometimes even spiteful. But death never wins in Dickinson's poetry. Memory and the eternity of the soul always trump death.

Victory comes late

Victory comes late--
And is held low to freezing lips--
Too rapt with frost
To take it--
How sweet it would have tasted--
Just a Drop--
Was God so economical?
His Table's spread too high for Us--
Unless We dine on Tiptoe--
Crumbs-- fit such little mouths--
Cherries-- suit Robins--
The Eagle's Golden Breakfast strangles-- Them--
God keep His Oath to Sparrows--
Who of little Love-- know how to starve--
(F 195)

This poem is yet another of Dickinson's that directly challenges the all-loving nature of God, and it has many phrases and themes in common with Dickinson's poems "Success is Counted Sweetest" -- written before this poem-- and "I had been hungry, all the years"- written after this poem. The speaker in "Victory comes late" questions the provision of God, who in the first lines seems to finally offer rescue to one past saving.

Much of Dickinson's language emphasizes the mercy or providence just out of reach. The table remains "spread too high for Us" and the speaker strains "on Tiptoe" to reach what seems to be spread so liberally for the taking. Everything is inches beyond reach, within sight and smell but not accessible. Dickinson famously struggled with the faith or religion of her family and peers, and I believe that she had the sights and scents of faith and religion within her range of senses, but a true feeling of God or a real experience seemed to elude her. Then again, this borders on making the poem autobiographical. That said, I think that the tone of frustration and accusation is at least a slight reflection of the poet's attitude toward deity.

The most twisted part of the poem lies in the inversion of values or stereotypes-- an element of parable-- which are found in the last two lines. The speaker scoffs that "God keeps His Oath to Sparrows-- / Who of little Love-- know how to starve", playing off of a biblical passage from the gospel of Luke. The passage reads "Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid: you are worth more than many sparrows" (Luke 12:6-7, NIV). Dickinson's poem, when analyzed through the allusion to the biblical passage, reads all the more haunting and brings the poem from a tone of disappointment to that of betrayal. The dying are analagous to the sparrows, and the sparrows die of "little love", meaning God and his economy are-- to the speaker-- beyond "economical" into downright calloused and deceptive.

Interestingly enough, parallels can be drawn between the concept of the sparrow choking on the eagle's meal and the idea of growing ill from partaking of a banquet feast in "I had been hungry all the years". I might return to this at some point.

Now I lay thee down to Sleep

Now I lay thee down to Sleep--
I pray the Lord thy Dust to keep--
And if thou live before thou wake--
I pray the Lord thy Soul to make--
(F 1575)

This poem strikes me as rather sordid-- an example of Dickinson's ability to take the familiar and twist it. It seems to have gothic overtones, though it is not overtly gothic, and it reminds me strongly of something that William Blake might have penned.

She plays off of the children's prayer, which evidently must date back to at least the 1800s and is still used widely today:
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

It's a simple prayer to memorize, though no doubt the archaic language leave many children mindlessly reciting something of which they have no understanding. The simplistic and highly consistent rhyme give it a sort of deceptive effect. It seems to soothe and lull in tone, but the language derails and leaves the reader in a far different place than he or she expected. Rather than going to sleep for the night, it opens with what the reader infers must be a death. The first line is only altered from the children's rhyme by the pronoun "thee," making the reader suspect something is amiss but likely thinking little of it until reaching the next line with the strange "dust to keep."

It's interesting that Dickinson inverts the language of the original prayer. The child in the original "Now I lay me down to sleep" willingly offers up the mortal part, formed of the dust of the earth in the biblical tradition, in exchange for safekeeping of the immortal soul. In this strange new version of the prayer, the speaker begs for the preservation of the mortal body and an incarnation of the soul. I still am not sure what to make of the final line and what conclusion Dickinson or the speaker lead the reader to draw. It's something I hope to return to.

A Letter is a joy of Earth

A Letter is a joy of Earth--
It is denied the Gods--
(F 1672)

This tiny poem might very well have come out of a letter, and is typical of the statements Dickinson often made-- gnomic thoughts compressed tightly into a single sentence. I love when she comes up with these seemingly simplistic statements. Anyone might thing "A letter is a joy of earth," because most people really do enjoy getting mail. I think at times that Dickinson would like instant messaging, because not only does it retain some anonymity but it also thrives on the sharp, witty intellect that she possessed. And yet instant messaging has both destroyed and enhanced the art of letter writing. I say destroyed because so few students really know how to draft a formal letter, and few see the value in such a slow form of communication in our technologically advanced society. And yet techology has enhanced letters in the sense that a note in paper means even more and receiving one shows great consideration.

Going more directly back to the poem, though, few people except Dickinson would add on the afterthought: "it is denied the gods." I'm still researching to make sure my grasp of grammar is correct, but if this is a compound sentence (and really even if it's not and it could go either way with Dickinson), then the second line could arguably serve as a nominative clause, renaming "joy" in the first line.

Ironically, the gods who ought to have access to everything are denied one thing-- the joy of letters. It's the unexpected reversal found so often in Dickinson, where the reader would assume gods have access to all, only to realize that while a god might receive a letter, it is unlike that it would happen. And if the god was omniscient, as Christian tradition maintains God is, then the letter really isn't much of a joy. As humans we have expectation or anticipation while we wait for a letter to arrive. There is the sudden surprise-joy of an unexpected letter, but still the anticipation is there when we see the envelope and wonder even for a few seconds before opening what could be inside. The omniscient god would already have foreknowledge, thus making the letter mundane or expected.

Arguably, the Christian response to this could be that even if God is already aware of letters or communication, the very act of communication is a joy to him. It makes me wonder how Dickinson might have responded to this defense.

Will there really be a "morning"?

I'll always remember sitting in the movie theatre the first time that I saw the second Lord of the Rings movie, "The Two Towers." It's my favorite of the trilogy, and my favorite moment is the dreary scene atop the stronghold as the men of Helm's Deep prepare to fight a battle they feel they are sure to win. There is a moment where a young boy is handed a sword that he obviously has never held before and is looking at Aragorn talking about how little chance they stand. Aragorn simply answers, "There is always hope."

I feel like much of Emily Dickinson's poetry is her search for hope, for some kind of assurance. She saw her share of heartaches and pains, and I think she felt them much more intensely than most people do. She obviously felt things very deeply, and I somewhat suspect she would be labelled in current day as a "highly sensitive person." Her poetry often reflects this searching and longing for comfort in poems like:

Will there really be a "morning"?
Is there such a thing as "Day"?
Could I see it from the mountains?
If I were as tall as they?

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Man from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called "morning" lies!
(F 148)

This is listed as an earlier poem, and her tighter rhyme scheme certainly reflects earlier work. Later, she often sacrificed neat rhyme for "eye rhyme." The reader should not allow the simplistic cadence to lull him or her into believing Dickinson meant these questions to be glib. If anything, the overt nursery sound of the poem should cause the reader to be hyper suspicious of the theme and its meaning.

Perhaps in a cynical mood she wrote this in the bitingly sarcastic of tones. Clearly the persona finds no one to adequately answer these questions. The speaker remains a "little Pilgrim", seemingly not worth the time for explanation, much less assurance. And "Wise Man from the skies" reads as nearly mocking, as though some apparition or magical all-knowing genie might appear to answer such wonderings. No, Dickinson provides no hope for these questions, leaving a void for the speaker and for the reader. Perhaps this was more of a reflection of her doubts and fears concerning religion and its inabilities to settle her inmost needs for security.

To put this World down, like a Bundle--

Emily Dickinson's seclusion has become one of the most readily remembered parts of her life. To a certain degree, I believe she chose it as a way of protecting her gift. It gave her time to cultivate her talents in ways that could not happen if she had been more engaged in public life. And yet, she took it to an extreme.

To put this World down, like a Bundle--
And walk steady, away,
Requires Energy-- possibly Agony--
'Tis the Scarlet way

Trodden with straight renunciation
By the Son of God--
Later, his faint Confederates
Justify the Road--

Flavors of that old Crucifixion--
Filaments of Bloom, Pontius Pilate sowed--
Strong Clusters, from Barabbas' Tomb--

Sacraments, Saints took before us--
Patent, every drop,
With the Brand of the Gentile Drinker
Who indorsed the Cup--
(F 404)

In a typical Dickinson paradox, the world is a "bundle" to be put down, like a burden, and at the same time it holds a sacred value of sacrament. The common and the eternal are united, bonded with pain and perseverance. Perhaps this is an indication that Dickinson saw her vocation and isolation as a poet to be sacred and to be her own crucifixion. That again takes the poem into the category of autobiography. No doubt much of her views and attitudes leak into her poems, but perhaps the poem itself extends far beyond the shades of biography.

The world and its demands are often a burden. Ironically the allusion to Christ only complicates this comparison. His delight was to do the will of the father that he was assigned, as he often mentions in the Bible. And yet, the story of his turmoil in the Garden of Gethsemane certain shows the extreme burden that the world created.

Such a comparison between struggles of others and the struggls of Christ make the reader wonder exactly what Dickinson may be implying about religion in this poem. She refers to the "Gentile Drinker / Who indorsed the cup", which seems to come into conflict with the sacrament of Communion, which is traditionally seen as instituted by Christ and later taken up by Paul, both Jews. Perhaps she did mean to imply that the burdens of the world were imposed on others and not originally meant to be religious. Taken in this context, the burdens might be those very things that we impose upon ourselves and the things that others impose upon us.

Certainly Dickinson was no stranger to burdens, having to deal with her mother's poor health, the complicated issues with her brother and his mistress, and even the passing of her beloved nephew, Gib. Heartache, pain, and burdens were no stranger to her, and it seems that Dickinson felt all these things very deeply and intensely. Life was fragile, and this attitude is reflected in much of her poetry and in her letters as she writes "In such a porcelain life, one likes to be sure that all is well, lest one stumble upon one's hopes in a pile of broken crockery" (Wineapple 66). Like so much else, her exact meanings remain nebulous and attempts to reconcile her writing with definite meanings and explanations are difficult.