The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson

No, I haven't abandoned my blog. I finished reading Jerome Charyn's The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Bring me the sunset in a cup (pt1)

Bring me the sunset in a cup--
Reckon the morning's flagon's up
And say how many Dew--
Tell me how far the morning leaps--
Tell me what time the weaver sleeps
Who spun the breadths of blue!

Write me how many notes there be
In the new Robin's extasy
Among astonished boughs--
How many trips the Tortoise makes--
How many cups the Bee partakes--
The Debauchee of Dews!
(first two stanzas #140)

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.

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).

Coming 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...

and new blogging is coming up. I'm back tomorrow, and my goal is to return again to daily blogging.

I was the slightest in the House

I was the slightest in the House--
I took the smallest Room--
At night, my little Lamp, and Book--
And one Geranium

So stationed I could catch the mint
That never ceased to fall--
And just my Basket--
Let me think-- I'm sure
That this was all--

I never spoke-- unless addressed--
And then, 'twas brief and low--
I could not bear to live-- aloud--
The Racket shamed me so--

And if it had not been so far--
And any one I knew
Were going-- I had often thought
How noteless-- I could die--
(F 473)

working on my thoughts on this one... back later with commentary.

The 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.

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.

The Future never spoke

The Future never spoke--
Nor will he like the Dumb
Reveal by sign a Syllable
Of his profound To Come--

But when the News be ripe
Presents it in the Act--
Forestalling Preparation--
Escape-- or Substitute--

Indifferent to him
The Dower-- as the Doom--
His Office but to execute
Fate's Telegram-- to Him--
(F 638)

How many schemes may die

How many schemes may die
In one short Afternoon
Entirely unknown
To those they most concern--
The man that was not lost
Because by accident
He varied by a Ribbon's width
From his accustomed route--
The Love that would not try
Because beside the Door
Some unsuspecting Horse was tied
Surveying his Despair
(F 1326)

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.

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.

and... it's entirely possible that I have completely misinterpreted this poem.

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.

Witchcraft 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...

Witchcraft was hung, in History,
But History and I
Find all the Witchcraft that we need
Around us, Every Day--
(F 1612)

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."

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.

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.

What I can do-- I will ... pt2

Continuing an analysis of the poem in the last entry...

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.

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.