Poetry has always appealed to my sensibilities. When I was younger I was attracted to the rollicking iambic meter of Emily Dickinson. My favorite poems were Dickinson's lyrical "There is no Frigate like a book...", and "I never saw a moor-" in which I found a kindred spirit in outlook. These fit in well with my cozy view of the world, and seemed to fulfill the necessary function of poetry as I saw it: to rhyme and sound pretty.
Those poems now serve as I kind of comfort food, a synesthetic that prompts nostalgia and contentment. But after recieving a volume of selected Dickinson poems a few years ago as a parting present, I have become acquainted with the darker side of her muse.
Dickinson was, after all, a social recluse, a phantom in white that haunted the upper floor of her parent's Amherst, Massachusetts dwelling. She never married and died young, outlived by both of her siblings. I knew bits and pieces of this story when I was younger, and it intrigued me to the point of obsession. Self-imposedm seclusion, perhaps an unrequited romance, words spun into poetry as straw into gold--it seemed the stuff of a fairy tale.
Looking among the great pool of Dickinson's works, one can find splintered pieces of evidence that bear testimony to her unusual life. Not only in her more well known works on death ("Because I Could Not Stop for Death" and others) but in the works that are classed, in my volume, as "love" poems. The editors, in this case, were not referring to romantic love, or even familial love. They were referring to an estranged wild passion, a grappling with affection that becomes evident in many of the poems.
"We talked as girls do--
Fond, and late--
We speculated fair, on every subject but the
Grave--
Of ours, none affair--"
Even amid the frivolity of this beginning stanza, death is a lurking presence, grave marked with a capital 'G', emphasized by Dickinson's habitual dashes, which bring to light her impetuous, tortured soul. Happy endings are few in this fairy tale, even amidst the poems. The final stanza of the poem quoted above is as follows:
"We parted with a contract
To cherish, and to write
But Heaven made both, impossible
Before another night."
The dashes are forgotten here, replaced by a uniform four lines with a familiar ABCB rhyme pattern. But within this simple stanza is contained a wealth of sorrow.
I do not mean to imply that Emily Dickinson was a morbid, miserable, reclusive poetess, although an argument can certainly be made to that end. Her taste for seclusion was more than a personality quirk, and we do her a disservice when we classify it as such. But it was also not the result of a hidden agony, a pain so deep she could not face it in the light of day.
I think that Dickinson's "lifestyle" was a conscious choice, a decision she made in order to fulfill her life's purpose or some such. She says as much in another poem that reveals an even more personal side:
"I cannot live with You--
It would be Life--
And Life is over there--
Behind the Shelf..."
"Nor could I rise--with You--
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus'--
That New Grace..."
"So We must meet apart--
You there--I--here--
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are--and Prayer--
And that White Sustenance--
Despair--"
The meaning in Dickinson's syntax can be hard to tease out, but this poem, or at least the portions I excerpted, seems clearer than most. An aspect of Dickinson's identity that is often missed in biographies and accounts of her life is that she was nothing if not religious. I do not say this as speculation; merely reading a few of her poems is enough to show her intense preoccupation with God and man. Her 'death' poems are, for this reason, not morbid at all, merely daring and often breathtaking pieces that examine future possibilities and fears to overcome.
The poem "I cannot live with You--" is a summation of her attitude towards romance and friendship. She does not deny that she longs for companionship, even feels desire, but to her a higher calling is evident, say what you will. When she makes her way to Heaven she must not be weighed down by attachments on earth. This is a feeling many harbor, but very few take cautions to prevent. Emily Dickinson was unique in her representation of her ideals--she lived them to the fullest extent.
*****
"Most--I love the Cause that slew Me.
Often as I die
Its beloved Recognition
Holds a Sun on Me--"
Here as elsewhere, Dickinson paints herself as a martyr, a follower joyfully sacrificing herself towards a cause. The ultimate goal of her sacrifice was death, of course--for to her death symbolized reuniting with her elusive savior: "For none see God and live." But the cause to which she sacrificed herself was a more delicate matter, a calling which she associated with God but which many others have taken up independent of religion.
Art. Dickinson was a martyr for her art. She gave up connections and companionship to write poetry of an indelible nature, which she shared with only a few family and friends.
"To pile like Thunder to its close
Then crumble grand away
While everything created hid
This--would be Poetry--"
she writes. Paradoxically, she seems to view poetry as an awesome, destructive force, when so many of her poems are seemingly small, non-harmful bolts of lightning. Likewise, she does not see herself as an artist, referring to poets in the third person, and showing affection only towards poetry itself, not towards the poet's occupation.
But Dickinson could not have seen the power her few syllables would hold decades later, how her small verses would resonate thunderously in the minds and hearts of millions of readers. One of them was a small girl with a cozy view of the world, sitting by her own upstairs window and attempting to copy the rythmic style of her idol when she wrote
"Imagination is a thing with wings
It blossoms, soars, and grows.
Is it true or is it false
Nobody really knows"
This was the result of one of my poor first poetic efforts, a tribute to the threads of gossamer Dickinson had woven that had so powerfully affected my childish mind. It was not until later that I discovered the thunderous bolts of lightning she had packed into that verse. I wonder what I will next discover in the tapestry of her artwork.
Those poems now serve as I kind of comfort food, a synesthetic that prompts nostalgia and contentment. But after recieving a volume of selected Dickinson poems a few years ago as a parting present, I have become acquainted with the darker side of her muse.
Dickinson was, after all, a social recluse, a phantom in white that haunted the upper floor of her parent's Amherst, Massachusetts dwelling. She never married and died young, outlived by both of her siblings. I knew bits and pieces of this story when I was younger, and it intrigued me to the point of obsession. Self-imposedm seclusion, perhaps an unrequited romance, words spun into poetry as straw into gold--it seemed the stuff of a fairy tale.
Looking among the great pool of Dickinson's works, one can find splintered pieces of evidence that bear testimony to her unusual life. Not only in her more well known works on death ("Because I Could Not Stop for Death" and others) but in the works that are classed, in my volume, as "love" poems. The editors, in this case, were not referring to romantic love, or even familial love. They were referring to an estranged wild passion, a grappling with affection that becomes evident in many of the poems.
"We talked as girls do--
Fond, and late--
We speculated fair, on every subject but the
Grave--
Of ours, none affair--"
Even amid the frivolity of this beginning stanza, death is a lurking presence, grave marked with a capital 'G', emphasized by Dickinson's habitual dashes, which bring to light her impetuous, tortured soul. Happy endings are few in this fairy tale, even amidst the poems. The final stanza of the poem quoted above is as follows:
"We parted with a contract
To cherish, and to write
But Heaven made both, impossible
Before another night."
The dashes are forgotten here, replaced by a uniform four lines with a familiar ABCB rhyme pattern. But within this simple stanza is contained a wealth of sorrow.
I do not mean to imply that Emily Dickinson was a morbid, miserable, reclusive poetess, although an argument can certainly be made to that end. Her taste for seclusion was more than a personality quirk, and we do her a disservice when we classify it as such. But it was also not the result of a hidden agony, a pain so deep she could not face it in the light of day.
I think that Dickinson's "lifestyle" was a conscious choice, a decision she made in order to fulfill her life's purpose or some such. She says as much in another poem that reveals an even more personal side:
"I cannot live with You--
It would be Life--
And Life is over there--
Behind the Shelf..."
"Nor could I rise--with You--
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus'--
That New Grace..."
"So We must meet apart--
You there--I--here--
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are--and Prayer--
And that White Sustenance--
Despair--"
The meaning in Dickinson's syntax can be hard to tease out, but this poem, or at least the portions I excerpted, seems clearer than most. An aspect of Dickinson's identity that is often missed in biographies and accounts of her life is that she was nothing if not religious. I do not say this as speculation; merely reading a few of her poems is enough to show her intense preoccupation with God and man. Her 'death' poems are, for this reason, not morbid at all, merely daring and often breathtaking pieces that examine future possibilities and fears to overcome.
The poem "I cannot live with You--" is a summation of her attitude towards romance and friendship. She does not deny that she longs for companionship, even feels desire, but to her a higher calling is evident, say what you will. When she makes her way to Heaven she must not be weighed down by attachments on earth. This is a feeling many harbor, but very few take cautions to prevent. Emily Dickinson was unique in her representation of her ideals--she lived them to the fullest extent.
*****
"Most--I love the Cause that slew Me.
Often as I die
Its beloved Recognition
Holds a Sun on Me--"
Here as elsewhere, Dickinson paints herself as a martyr, a follower joyfully sacrificing herself towards a cause. The ultimate goal of her sacrifice was death, of course--for to her death symbolized reuniting with her elusive savior: "For none see God and live." But the cause to which she sacrificed herself was a more delicate matter, a calling which she associated with God but which many others have taken up independent of religion.
Art. Dickinson was a martyr for her art. She gave up connections and companionship to write poetry of an indelible nature, which she shared with only a few family and friends.
"To pile like Thunder to its close
Then crumble grand away
While everything created hid
This--would be Poetry--"
she writes. Paradoxically, she seems to view poetry as an awesome, destructive force, when so many of her poems are seemingly small, non-harmful bolts of lightning. Likewise, she does not see herself as an artist, referring to poets in the third person, and showing affection only towards poetry itself, not towards the poet's occupation.
But Dickinson could not have seen the power her few syllables would hold decades later, how her small verses would resonate thunderously in the minds and hearts of millions of readers. One of them was a small girl with a cozy view of the world, sitting by her own upstairs window and attempting to copy the rythmic style of her idol when she wrote
"Imagination is a thing with wings
It blossoms, soars, and grows.
Is it true or is it false
Nobody really knows"
This was the result of one of my poor first poetic efforts, a tribute to the threads of gossamer Dickinson had woven that had so powerfully affected my childish mind. It was not until later that I discovered the thunderous bolts of lightning she had packed into that verse. I wonder what I will next discover in the tapestry of her artwork.
Sources: Washington, Peter ed. Dickinson (Everyman's Library Pocket Poets). Alfred A. Knopf: 1993
Farr, Judith. The Gardens of Emily Dickinson. Harvard University Press: 2005
Photograph: http://www.sheilaomalley.com/archives/009079.html
Very profound Heather! I enjoyed Emily Dickinson immensely as a teenager and in college. It never sat well with me what a lot of biographers suggested about Emily's reclusiveness owing it to a mental instability. I like what you have offered to the conversation about her; that she was a very spiritual being, a martyr in a way. Many people do not understand contemplatives whether in an order like Catholic or Anglican nuns, Buddhist and Catholic Monks etc. Why not contemplative artists and writers, too?
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