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.
Showing posts with label rhyme. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rhyme. Show all posts
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The going from a world we know
Death is a common topic in Dickinson's poetry. In his Dickinson biography My Wars are Laid Away in Books Alfred Habegger recounts many incidents of Dickinson's childhood where death was prominent. Child mortality rates were much higher, and the Dickinsons were often cautioned to keep careful watch over their children, often keeping a young Emily and at times their youngest child, Lavinia, from school for fear of the slightest illness. It is known that Emily Dickinson witnessed the death of a child when she was still young, and it seems to have made a strong imprint upon her mind.
The mystery of the journey between life and what lies beyond seems to fascinate the poet, and much of her writing muses upon possibilities. Sometimes it is a carriage ride, sometimes darker. But always it is a trek into the unknown and unfamiliar, and the poems pose far more questions than any solace they seek to create:
The going from a world we know
To one a wonder still
Is like a child's adversity
Whose vista is a hill,
Behind the hill is sorcery
And everything unknown,
But will the secret compensate
For climbing it alone?
(F 1662)
"Sorcery" is a loaded image in this poem, indicating that the appearance of the world might not match reality. It implies there is misleading, possibly with malicious intent. Again, I can't help but wonder if this is Dickinson's way of snubbing religion, suggesting that "heaven" might to be all that the Bible leads the reader to believe. There are tones of doubt that are cleverly disguised with one of Dickinson's most stable and most interlocking rhyme schemes (ABCBCDED). A consistent and more direct rhyme lend the poem and sing-song rhythm that puts the reader at ease and lowers his or her guard.
In fact, it should only amplify the reader's suspicions that perhaps the final two lines really indicate that nothing in this manipulated and illusory world that exists over the hill or just beyond life is really worth the pain of separation and isolation in climbing the hill alone. What started as a similie that seems to be offered in comfort-- facing death is like spying the hill and wondering what lies beyond-- has terminated in distrust and uncertainty. Are the risks of deception worth the separation? Dickinson's tone indicates that the risks are not worth it, but she and the unknown speaker leave this final conclusion for the reader to decide.
I do wonder, though, if this poem could also be viewed as the soul considering entering the world, pre-birth. Looking at the poem as a soul pre-incarnate it could be viewed as a play off of William Blake's The Book of Thel, considering whether it is good to remain as is, in heaven and innocent, or whether to risk the toils and pains of earth and to be born into a human body. I wish I could discuss this with Dickinson. Possibly she meant the poem to read as I have previously interpreted it-- as the person considering death and what might lie beyond-- but I still wonder if maybe she was aiming for the pre-incarnate soul as well.
The mystery of the journey between life and what lies beyond seems to fascinate the poet, and much of her writing muses upon possibilities. Sometimes it is a carriage ride, sometimes darker. But always it is a trek into the unknown and unfamiliar, and the poems pose far more questions than any solace they seek to create:
The going from a world we know
To one a wonder still
Is like a child's adversity
Whose vista is a hill,
Behind the hill is sorcery
And everything unknown,
But will the secret compensate
For climbing it alone?
(F 1662)
"Sorcery" is a loaded image in this poem, indicating that the appearance of the world might not match reality. It implies there is misleading, possibly with malicious intent. Again, I can't help but wonder if this is Dickinson's way of snubbing religion, suggesting that "heaven" might to be all that the Bible leads the reader to believe. There are tones of doubt that are cleverly disguised with one of Dickinson's most stable and most interlocking rhyme schemes (ABCBCDED). A consistent and more direct rhyme lend the poem and sing-song rhythm that puts the reader at ease and lowers his or her guard.
In fact, it should only amplify the reader's suspicions that perhaps the final two lines really indicate that nothing in this manipulated and illusory world that exists over the hill or just beyond life is really worth the pain of separation and isolation in climbing the hill alone. What started as a similie that seems to be offered in comfort-- facing death is like spying the hill and wondering what lies beyond-- has terminated in distrust and uncertainty. Are the risks of deception worth the separation? Dickinson's tone indicates that the risks are not worth it, but she and the unknown speaker leave this final conclusion for the reader to decide.
I do wonder, though, if this poem could also be viewed as the soul considering entering the world, pre-birth. Looking at the poem as a soul pre-incarnate it could be viewed as a play off of William Blake's The Book of Thel, considering whether it is good to remain as is, in heaven and innocent, or whether to risk the toils and pains of earth and to be born into a human body. I wish I could discuss this with Dickinson. Possibly she meant the poem to read as I have previously interpreted it-- as the person considering death and what might lie beyond-- but I still wonder if maybe she was aiming for the pre-incarnate soul as well.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
adrift!
Adrift! A little boat adrift!
And night is coming down!
Will no one guide a little boat
Unto the nearest town?
So Sailors say -- on yesterday --
Just as the dusk was brown
One little boat gave up its strife
And gurgled down and down.
So angels say -- on yesterday --
Just as the dawn was red
One little boat -- o'erspent with gales --
Retrimmed its masts -- redecked its sails --
And shot -- exultant on!
(F 6)
I first read this poem sometime in college, and it reminds me of the loss of someone that I knew. When she passed away, everyone seemed to assume that they knew exactly who she was and what her fate was. It was this view that she had lived alright until an event or series of events, and then things happened and made assumptions. In many ways, it was one of those pitying things where everyone tries to say something but can't think of much to say that isn't downright rude. There were much deeper parts that most people never knew. And honestly I believe there were things she could not control. Yes, this is vague but there is a point...
That point is that so much of life exists in parts that we don't see, in things that are private and beyond us. The perceived dusk may well be a dawn waiting to be recognized. There is hope and there is potential even in the most dire situations. At least I would like to believe that, and perhaps it is a naive belief. At times it is a downright impossible belief.
This poem echoes Dickinson's recurring theme of time and eternity and what is temporal versus what is everlasting. The poem seems to be deceptively simple, with an almost nursery rhyme regularity the ABCB DEFE GHIHJ scheme. Always ready to invert our expectations, we find ourselves lulled by the rhyme into very clear expectations as the words gently rock us into a familiar pattern-- thought perhaps a dark pattern. The little boat flounders, sinks, and the seamen watch it go down. Simple, yes? But it isn't, for in the third stanza Dickinson twists perspective, reaching a whole new level of perception and launching her audience into the celestial realm.
Our perspective in life is so finite and limited, governed strictly by the rules of life and death and without any more control than the floudering ship. And while the storms and devastation of the sea, perhaps a metaphor for life, are beyond our control, we do control how we view and react to the situations we face. We can sit back and do nothing but say "how sad" and watch the ship sink. Why did those sailors not try to save anyone who could be saved? Or we can accept what happens and find joy in the situation and celebrate with the enduring soul. This isn't to say that we are not deeply affected by grief, and I don't mean to imply that mourning should be avoided or is wrong. Nor do I mean that we should not do all we can with whatever means we have to help those struggling. But perhaps more to Dickinson's point, we need to look deeper in the first place, beyond our limited view of the situation and find what lies at the heart of the matter, what endures or could endure.
And night is coming down!
Will no one guide a little boat
Unto the nearest town?
So Sailors say -- on yesterday --
Just as the dusk was brown
One little boat gave up its strife
And gurgled down and down.
So angels say -- on yesterday --
Just as the dawn was red
One little boat -- o'erspent with gales --
Retrimmed its masts -- redecked its sails --
And shot -- exultant on!
(F 6)
I first read this poem sometime in college, and it reminds me of the loss of someone that I knew. When she passed away, everyone seemed to assume that they knew exactly who she was and what her fate was. It was this view that she had lived alright until an event or series of events, and then things happened and made assumptions. In many ways, it was one of those pitying things where everyone tries to say something but can't think of much to say that isn't downright rude. There were much deeper parts that most people never knew. And honestly I believe there were things she could not control. Yes, this is vague but there is a point...
That point is that so much of life exists in parts that we don't see, in things that are private and beyond us. The perceived dusk may well be a dawn waiting to be recognized. There is hope and there is potential even in the most dire situations. At least I would like to believe that, and perhaps it is a naive belief. At times it is a downright impossible belief.
This poem echoes Dickinson's recurring theme of time and eternity and what is temporal versus what is everlasting. The poem seems to be deceptively simple, with an almost nursery rhyme regularity the ABCB DEFE GHIHJ scheme. Always ready to invert our expectations, we find ourselves lulled by the rhyme into very clear expectations as the words gently rock us into a familiar pattern-- thought perhaps a dark pattern. The little boat flounders, sinks, and the seamen watch it go down. Simple, yes? But it isn't, for in the third stanza Dickinson twists perspective, reaching a whole new level of perception and launching her audience into the celestial realm.
Our perspective in life is so finite and limited, governed strictly by the rules of life and death and without any more control than the floudering ship. And while the storms and devastation of the sea, perhaps a metaphor for life, are beyond our control, we do control how we view and react to the situations we face. We can sit back and do nothing but say "how sad" and watch the ship sink. Why did those sailors not try to save anyone who could be saved? Or we can accept what happens and find joy in the situation and celebrate with the enduring soul. This isn't to say that we are not deeply affected by grief, and I don't mean to imply that mourning should be avoided or is wrong. Nor do I mean that we should not do all we can with whatever means we have to help those struggling. But perhaps more to Dickinson's point, we need to look deeper in the first place, beyond our limited view of the situation and find what lies at the heart of the matter, what endures or could endure.
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