I stepped from Plank to Plank

I stepped from Plank to Plank
A slow and cautious way
The stars about my Head I felt
About my Feet the Sea--

I knew not but the next
Would be my final inch--
This gave me that precarious Gait
Some call Experience
(F 926)

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.

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)

It bloomed and dropt, a Single Noon

I 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.

It bloomed and dropt, a Single Noon
The Flower-- distinct and Red--
I, passing, thought another Noon
Another in it's stead

Will equal glow, and thought no more
But came another Day
To find the Species disappeared--
The Same Locality--

The Sun in place-- no other fraud
On Nature's perfect Sum--
Had I but lingered Yesterday--
Was my retrieveless blame--

Much Flowers of this and further Zones
Have perished in my Hands
For seeking it's Resemblance--
But unapproached it stands--

The single Flower of the Earth
That I, in passing by
Unconscious was-- Great Nature's Face
Passed infinite by Me--

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.

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.

Some say good night-- at night--

Some say good night-- at night--
I say good night by day
Good bye-- the Going utter me--
Good night, I still reply--

For parting, that is night,
And presence, simply dawn--
Itself, the purple on the hight
Denominated morn.
(F 586)

This poem fascinates me, and I was surprised to find it hiding so impishly among the other poems in Franklin's anthology of Dickinson. Yes, there is a speaker or persona in this poem who narrates it-- an other who is not the poet herself. And yet, I think it shows the depth of feeling and love that Dickinson had for those closest to her.

While she did not have a huge range of friends and people to whom she spoke or even wrote, she was prolific in what letter writing she did. Her language in her letters is practically poetry instead of prose, in its highly charged language and abundance of imagery and exacting phrases. Perhaps all of her poems truly were letters. At any rate, there is a deep connection to others. "Presence, simply dawn" expresses the glorious joy and eagerness that friends brought to Dickinson, as well as the speaker.

I think it is a bit interesting that Dickinson chose night and sunrise as the metaphors in this poem. Humans have no control over nightfall or sunrise, and it implies that Dickinson or at least the speaker has little or no control over the comings and goings of those beloved. Perhaps this could serve as an extended metaphor for death, as though each goodbye could be a literal and not just metaphoric death. Certainly death was not predictable and could strike far too suddenly. This may have enhanced the feeling of "goodbye" as a death and every "hello" as not only a sunrise but as its archetypal plot motif dictates, it could be a rebirth or resurrection. Again, hope tries to eke out some space in this poem, and I think Dickinson and her speaker ardently wish for the next "hello" of a sunrise and its revival of all things new and fresh.

Fame is a bee

I'm not sure what Dickinson's thing with bees was. I think I saw an article about it, possibly entitled "In the name of the Bee," which is the title of one of her poems. At any rate, bees are a common theme, symbolizing in today's poem the nature of the insect as industrious, menacing, and fleeting:

Fame is a bee.
It has a song--
It has a sting--
Ah, too, it has a wing.
(F 1788)

Just the other day I read an article on AOL news about one of the American Idols, and the article suggested this former idol was trying to escape the fall from interest that former contestants like Fantasia Barion and Rueben Studdard have endured. Overall, our interest in celebs tends to follow trends. I doubt that in more than a few years that quasi-celebs like Octomom or Jon and Kate Gosselin will be much heard from.

Dickinson's poem is ardently true in both the cases of Nadya Suleman and the Gosselins. All found fame under what seemed a song. In Suleman's case, this was the birth of surviving octuplets. In the case of the Gosselins, it was their family of eight-- twins and then sextuplets-- and their struggles and successes in raising the children. And quickly with Suleman, the sting of fame made itself known as the circumstances around the conception of the children, all invitro including her six previous children, were made known. Recently the sting of fame has hit the Gosselin family, too, as Jon and Kate are seeking divorce. Both Suleman and the Gosselins have become almost daily fodder for gossip magazines, and neither they nor any of their children seem to be able to find any privacy from the constant attention from paparazzi.

It seems perfectly logical that the "wing" of fame may soon make itself known. As soon as Suleman and the Gosselins fail to make the photogs and writers money, their five minutes of fame will end. They will be relegated to the history pages, the scandal or intrigue long gone.

Perhaps this is again why Dickinson so shyed away from public life. Part of me wants to believe that she knew how brilliant she was, that she understood she had a great gift. And maybe she chose her life of semi-isolation as her own buffer, to protect herself against the sting and the wing of fame. If left alone, the bee will produce something exceptionally better than a sting-- namely honey. By stepping back from fame and letting it flitter past, Dickinson achieved far greater rewards, a longer lasting and sweeter legacy (even if her poems can still often contain sting that would rival the bee's).

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.