I Asked No Other Thing -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Priscilla Jebaraj

(Poem #1925) I Asked No Other Thing I asked no other thing, No other was denied. I offered Being for it; The mighty merchant smiled. Brazil? He twirled a button Without a glance my way: But, madam, is there nothing else That we can show today? -- Emily Dickinson

I was skimming through Jean Webster's "Daddy Long Legs" yesterday, because I
was sure I remembered a poem written by her heroine Judy Abbott in college,
which would go with the current theme. Couldn't find it, but I did come
across this rather enigmatic Dickinson piece.  Judy, writing to her
guardian, tells him about the poem --

  "In English class this afternoon we had an unexpected written lesson.
  This was it:

     I asked no other thing,
     No other was denied.
     I offered Being for it;
     The mighty merchant smiled.

     Brazil? He twirled a button
     Without a glance my way:
     But, madam, is there nothing else
     That we can show today?

  That is a poem. I don't know who wrote it or what it means. It was
  simply printed out on the blackboard when we arrived and we were ordered
  to comment upon it. When I read the first verse I thought I had an
  idea--The Mighty Merchant was a divinity who distributes blessings in
  return for virtuous deeds-- but when I got to the second verse and found
  him twirling a button, it seemed a blasphemous supposition, and I
  hastily changed my mind.  The rest of the class was in the same
  predicament; and there we sat for three-quarters of an hour with blank
  paper and equally blank minds. Getting an education is an awfully
  wearing process!"

I must admit that, like Judy, my idea of what it means is rather vague. But
since, unlike Judy, I don't have to get an education out of it, I'm free to
enjoy it with my own interpretation!

I'd guess that the Mighty Merchant is meant to be God, a God who seems to
smile indifferently at her deepest desires. Some commentators suggest that
Brazil is a reference to heaven -- apparently, "during this period, exotic
locations frequently... represented heaven, or something desired and dreamt
of, yet beyond reach and denied." Other readings of the poem say Dicksinson
is speaking for all women seeking emancipation and freedom, the one thing
that is denied to them.

Quite apart from meaning, I think those first two lines just stick in the
memory somehow! Anyone else care to take a stab at interpretation?

Priscilla

The Moon is Distant from the Sea -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Rachel Rein

(Poem #1786) The Moon is Distant from the Sea The moon is distant from the sea, And yet with amber hands She leads him, docile as a boy, Along appointed sands. He never misses a degree; Obedient to her eye, He comes just so far toward the town, Just so far goes away. Oh, Signor, thine the amber hand, And mine the distant sea, -- Obedient to the least command Thine eyes impose on me. -- Emily Dickinson

As the 22nd Dickinson poem on Minstrels, there isn't much left to say about
the formidable woman herself, though I will touch upon the text for a
moment. I was introduced to it while singing an arrangement by David Childs
in a woman's chorale.

I've seen the poem written with a dash in nearly every phrase instead of
commas or periods, though I do not know which version, if either, is the
"correct" one.  I've also heard some say Dickinson was writing about God. I
would broaden the scope to say I believe this poem to be about any strong
male figure, be that father, brother, or a deity. Strong, though, to a
fault; we cannot tell whether the sea wishes to be so conforming, does not
have a choice, or does not know the difference. It is also interesting to
note the gender of the moon and the sea, then the seeming reversal in the
last stanza: the man becomes the formerly feminine moon while Dickinson
becomes the manchild sea. While I do not know what to make of this, I hope
someone will comment and illuminate.

In all, this is one of my favorite Dickinson poems and I'm proud to add it
to the Minstrel archive.

-Rae Rein

Further in Summer than the Birds -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem submitted by Mac Robb:

(Poem #1761) Further in Summer than the Birds Further in Summer than the Birds Pathetic from the Grass A minor Nation celebrates Its unobtrusive Mass. No Ordinance be seen So gradual the Grace A pensive Custom it becomes Enlarging Loneliness. Antiquest felt at Noon When August burning low Arise this spectral Canticle Repose to typify Remit as yet no Grace No Furrow on the Glow Yet a Druidic Difference Enhances Nature now -- Emily Dickinson

It is a compliment to the Wondering Minstrels when a standard of the canon
has not yet appeared, but so it is and I here remedy the default, provoked
by the recent other Dickinson offerings.

It is easy to patronise "Emily," as her academic critics invariably rather
astonishingly call her - not "Dickinson"; not even "Miss Dickinson" or
"Emily Dickinson" - does one ever hear of "Twain" or "Whitman"? Nope: they
are always "Mark Twain" and "Walt Whitman"; fair enough, but why is Emily
Dickinson always "Emily"? Well, she had a rather sheltered sequestered small
town Old Maid Yankee existence. And her poems are all in 86 86 Common Metre,
like the 19th century hymns that would have been familiar to her at Sunday
Congregational church meetings. One wonders just how wide her reading could
have been, not to speak of her acquaintance: she might, after all, be simply
an astonishingly sensitive and acute original. Certainly her real life
experience was extremely straitened; she took her reclusiveness very
seriously - her poetry was mostly found after her death sewn up in
"fascicles," as she called them; in 20th century terms she would doubtless
be regarded as a pathological case and have been locked up like Robert
Lowell; and in, say, 4th century terms she would undoubtedly be in the canon
of saints.

But in her poetry - it is most certainly not mere "verse" - she pushes CM to
its outermost limits: she makes me think of William Cowper and John Newton
with their very fine CM hymns a hundred years earlier ("God moves in a
mysterious way/his wonders to perform"; "Glorious things of thee are
spoken/Zion, city of our God"; "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound/that
saved a wretch like me"), and Wordsworth's reverie on the disciplining
confines of the sonnet form in "Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow
room."

The thing that's so amazing about her poetry is, continuingly, "How did she
know?! How COULD she know?!" A queer old maid Yankee just couldn't have
known about Catholic liturgical and exegetical niceties but yet,
astonishingly, she did. (T.S. Eliot and Gerard Manley Hopkins, with
backgrounds not wholly dissimilar to hers, went whole hog into small- and
large-C catholicism, respectively, but Emily Dickinson seems to have grasped
everything they did and found that route unnecessary.)

And so the hum of grasshoppers on a hot, dry August afternoon is the
celebration both of insubstantial quiddity and a sacramental rite. The
"Grace" that is imparted to faithful (well, say, to Boston Irish Catholics
in Emily Dickinson's world) in the Mass, some time after the "gradual" (ie
not just slowly-slowly, but also the scriptural tract recited or sung
between the epistle and the gospel) - in the case of the August insect
liturgies isolates and excludes rather than gathering and including. But HOW
did she know all this? An "antiquest"? It's perhaps an antiphon - the
responsory chanted by a monastic choir, but it's also a vain endeavour to
find involvement in nature and obviate loneliness and isolation. A
"canticle"? It's the liturgical term for the biblical hymns chanted in the
monastic office - magnificat, nunc dimitis, benedictus, benedicite and so
on; but again, how did she know? And they typify repose: they represent
rest; but "typology" is the hermeneutical term for supposed Old Testament
anticipations of New Testament fulfilments, such as the rod carried aloft
before the Israelites in the wilderness and the cross of Jesus. And yet
again, how DID she know? But clearly she did, for her closing reference to a
"Druidic difference" means, certainly, that she has considered all these
liturgical resonances before rejecting them as the appropriate metaphor;
nature is certainly sacramental, but the appropriate sacerdotalism is pagan.
And exclusionary.

"Further in summer than the birds," it seems to me, is a companion to, an
amplification of, that splendid other nature poem of hers, "A narrow fellow
in the grass," and its arresting concluding image of feeling "zero at the
bone" comes to mind here - as Wordsworth (to return to the opening of this
little discussion) with his sentimentality about nature most certainly does
not.

Mac Robb.
Brisbane, Australia.

I Taste a Liquor Never Brewed -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Aseem

(Poem #1743) I Taste a Liquor Never Brewed I taste a liquor never brewed, From tankards scooped in pearl; Not all the vats upon the Rhine Yield such an alcohol! Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue. When landlords turn the drunken bee Out of the foxglove's door, When butterflies renounce their drams, I shall but drink the more! Till seraphs swing their snowy hats, And saints to windows run, To see the little tippler Leaning against the sun! -- Emily Dickinson

Just a quick response to Zen's tea poem [Poem #1743] (which, incidentally, I
have absolutely no memory of ever sending her). Figured if we were doing
poems about drinking and beverages more generally (I sense a theme coming on
- Martin / Thomas?) we can't do without including this little marvel of a
poem.

Today's poem is not, emphatically, one of Dickinson's best. Some of the
lines border on trite and the overall effect is of something light and
harmless, the intense power that I love Dickinson for is missing. But it's
precisely this frothiness that makes this poem such a delightful read.
Poetry really doesn't get sweeter and happier than this - to read these 16
lines is to experience the very giddiness that Dickinson is trying to
describe. There are some exquisite phrases here "Inebriate of air am I / and
debauchee of dew" and "inns of molten blue" and Dickinson's quicksilver
lines create a sense of footsteps dancing lightly through across the page
which is simply exquisite.

This is a poem one could truly get drunk on.

Aseem

Other suggested reading on minstrels:

John Agard's Coffee in Heaven [Poem #1071]
(another poem we owe to Zen - you're really obsessed, aren't you?)
Vikram Seth's Sit [Poem #966]
Harold Monro's Milk for the Cat [Poem #727]
Rumi's The Tavern [Poem #514]
Harivansh Rai Bacchan's Madhusala [Poem #72]
Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyat (extract) [Poem #162]

A Narrow Fellow in the Grass -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem submitted by Joanne Nakaya:

(Poem #1732) A Narrow Fellow in the Grass A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides - You may have met him? Did you not His notice instant is - The Grass divides as with a comb - A spotted Shaft is seen, And then it closes at your Feet And opens further on - He likes a Boggy Acre - A Floor too cool for Corn - Yet when a Boy and barefoot I more than once at Noon, Have passed I thought a Whip Lash Unbraiding in the Sun When stooping to secure it It wrinkled And was gone - Several of Nature's People I know and they know me I feel for them a transport Of Cordiality; But never met this Fellow Attended or alone Without a tighter Breathing And Zero at the Bone. -- Emily Dickinson

This version of the poem is from "The Poems of Emily Dickinson", edited by
R. W. Franklin and published by The Belknap Press of Harvard University.

My favorite poetess of all time is Emily Dickinson.  She is so concise.  The
brevity of her poetry lends an intensity that I have found in the renderings
of very few poets.  I also find her poetry eternal.  I have chosen this poem
because every time I read it I remember meeting a snake in the grass while
tromping through our back fields when I was a child in Vermont.  A "tighter
Breathing / And Zero at the Bone" is exactly how it felt.  She never
identifies the 'Fellow' as a snake; she doesn't need to.  Her use of
language is superb and there is no doubt of whom she speaks.  Despite the
language that might appear odd to our generation, her message here, and
thoughout her poetry, transcends time.

Joanne Nakaya.

It was not death, for I stood up -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem submitted by Aseem Kaul:

(Poem #1649) It was not death, for I stood up It was not death, for I stood up, And all the dead lie down; It was not night, for all the bells Put out their tongues, for noon. It was not frost, for on my flesh I felt siroccos crawl, - Nor fire, for just my marble feet Could keep a chancel cool. And yet it tasted like them all; The figures I have seen Set orderly, for burial, Reminded me of mine, As if my life were shaven And fitted to a frame, And could not breathe without a key; And 'twas like midnight, some, When everything that ticked has stopped, And space stares, all around, Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns Repeal the beating ground. But most like chaos - stopless, cool, - Without a chance or spar, Or even a report of land To justify despair. -- Emily Dickinson

There are some poems you cannot escape. Poems that are like locked, bare
rooms filled with a light so cold it can only be the truth. Poems that
capture not only the horror of desolation, but also its stark, simple
beauty.

This is one of those poems.

This is a poem that grabs you by the throat right at the start (can you
imagine an opening more immediate, more engaging that "It was not death for
I stood up / And all the dead lie down?") and gradually increases in
pressure until it finally lets you go, gasping for breath, only at the very
end. This is a poem that combines some of the sharpest, most suffocating
lines in the language ("As if my life were shaven / And fitted to a frame")
with a sense of quiet acceptance that both informs the first two stanzas and
radiates through those hearbreaking last lines. This is a poem that is at
once a mosaic of images and a single, singing voice.

It is also, of course, vintage Dickinson. The short, haiku-like lines are
back, with their awkward rhymes that somehow manage to sound exactly right.
There's the usual sense of precision, the feeling that every word has been
carefully selected and carries within it a great weight of meaning. And
there's that deeply personal tone which makes what would otherwise be an
exceedingly cruel poem, a moving and sad one.

Aseem.

I Cannot Live with You -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Aseem

(Poem #1436) I Cannot Live with You I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf The sexton keeps the key to, Putting up Our life, his porcelain, Like a cup Discarded of the housewife, Quaint or broken; A newer Sevres pleases, Old ones crack. I could not die with you, For one must wait To shut the other's gaze down,-- You could not. And I, could I stand by And see you freeze, Without my right of frost, Death's privilege? Nor could I rise with you, Because your face Would put out Jesus'. That new grace Glow plain and foreign On my homesick eye, Except that you, than he Shone closer by. They'd judge us--how? For you served Heaven, you know Or sought to; I could not, Because you saturated sight, And I had no more eyes For sordid excellence As Paradise. And were you lost, I would be, Though my name Rang loudest On the heavenly fame. And were you saved, And I condemned to be Where you were not, That self were hell to me. So we must keep apart, You there, I here, With just the door ajar That oceans are, And prayer, And that pale sustenance, Despair! -- Emily Dickinson

It's difficult to have a "favourite" Emily Dickinson poem, because
every one of her poems is radiant with intensity, so that reading her
collected works (as i've been doing this week) is like watching a
beautiful crystal shatter into a million exquisite pieces, each shining
brilliant in the sunlight.

If I had to pick a favourite though, it would be this one - not because
it's the most accomplished of her work, but because somehow it's always
seemed to me the most desperate, and therefore the most heartfelt. This
is the most despairing a love poem has ever been, even a Dickinson love
poem. I love the matter of factness of the first stanza, the spine
chilling casualness of "Old ones crack". Strangely, it's a starting
that always drives me taut with rage, with indignation, like I want to
break open every locked shelf and smash all the china in the world. And
I love the way Dickinson goes on to throw away line after memorable
line ("My right of frost / Death's privilege" or "Only the door ajar /
that oceans are").

But if this is an overwhelmingly sad poem, it is also an incredible
love poem. Dickinson surrenders to everything, accepts every part of
the hopeless truth, every aching mile of her seperation, but never lets
her love waver. Hers is a sinewy and courageous passion, one that I
cannot help be moved by. And because of it, this is a great poem.

Aseem

Hope -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Jessica Schnell

(Poem #1382) Hope Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune--without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me. -- Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson has long been a favorite poet of mine, and I've loved this
particular poem ever since some time in middle school when I first read it.
Maybe it's because it presents such a cheerful and enduring imagery for me,
of what hope is like, as a little bird with a beautiful and uplifting song.

I noticed you had numerous other poems by Dickinson, and thought this would
be a wonderful addition to your collection, to share with others (I
regularly pick a random poem to post on profiles, away messages, etc.)
Great site, keep up the hard work! [thanks! - ed.]

~Jessica

[Martin adds]

I am reminded of Poem #646 - the imagery in the two poems make an
interesting blend.

In a Library -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Sutirth Dey

(Poem #1347) In a Library A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young. His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old; What interested scholars most, What competitions ran When Plato was a certainty. And Sophocles a man; When Sappho was a living girl, And Beatrice wore The gown that Dante deified. Facts, centuries before, He traverses familiar, As one should come to town And tell you all your dreams were true; He lived where dreams were sown. His presence is enchantment, You beg him not to go; Old volumes shake their vellum heads And tantalize, just so. -- Emily Dickinson

Comments:
I love to collect books. Recently my quest led me to a dingy shop in
Bangalore that is famous all over India for its collection of old and rare
books. I was in a hurry and intended to spend no more than 10-15 minutes
there. Ended up spending approximately three hours and during almost the
entire duration, this poem kept on going through my mind. I had read this
poem several times before, but that day I felt it!!

As far as the poem goes, I hardly find any need for comments. The
personification of the old book, the 'time machine'-like ability of the book
to transport the readers to its own era and finally the crash back to the
reader's own time- is entirely magical. Anyone who has read an old,
musty-smelling, slightly tattered volume will vouch for whatever is
expressed here. Obviously, this feeling is lacking entirely when you read
poems/books over the internet!!!

Sutirth Dey

[Martin adds]

I liked Sutirth's commentary, since I have often had the same experience - a
poem, or perhaps a single line, attaches itself to a particular occasion,
and my experience of both the poem and the occasion are enhanced thereby.
Poetry truly is a collaborative effort between the writer and the reader, a
fact that overly analytical critics often forget.

Sutirth also asked
>  Can you tell me what happened to the site:
>      [broken link] http://www.geocities.com/~spanoudi/poems
> The site has been removed and I can not find its new location. It is a great
> loss to the entire poetry reading community of the world.

Since the answer is of general interest, here's the new location:
  http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/

martin

Ample Make This Bed -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Linda Roberts

(Poem #1337) Ample Make This Bed Ample make this bed. Make this bed with awe; In it wait till judgment break Excellent and fair. Be its mattress straight, Be its pillow round; Let no sunrise' yellow noise Interrupt this ground. -- Emily Dickinson

(Complete Poems Part Four: Time and Eternity, LXIII)

After reading today's Emily Dickinson (Poem #1328) and reflecting on the
recent "poetry in the movies" thread, I thought of this poem, used to such
great effect in "Sophie's Choice" and especially touching to anyone like me
who's recently lost a loved one.

Graves are often compared to beds, and death to sleep, but Dickinson's
description seems especially poignant to me, since graves are frequently
described as narrow or deep, but "ample" seems both an unusual and apt term.

Linda

You cannot put a fire out -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #1328) You cannot put a fire out You cannot put a fire out; A thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a fan Upon the slowest night. You cannot fold a flood And put it in a drawer, -- Because the winds would find it out, And tell your cedar floor. -- Emily Dickinson

I really like this poem, because it's sort of rebellious and
revolutionary and because the images are whacko. I keep imagining trying
to fold a flood the way I would sheets :-). Also I like the image of the
wind whispering quietly to the cedar floor.

[Minstrels Links]

Emily Dickinson:
Poem #92, There's a certain Slant of light
Poem #174, A Route of Evanescence
Poem #341, The Grass so little has to do -
Poem #458, The Chariot
Poem #529, If you were coming in the fall
Poem #580, Split the Lark
Poem #687, Success is counted sweetest
Poem #711, I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Poem #829, It dropped so low in my regard
Poem #871, I felt a Funeral, in my Brain
Poem #891, A Doubt If It Be Us
Poem #950, The Cricket Sang
Poem #1294, The reticent volcano keeps

The reticent volcano keeps -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #1294) The reticent volcano keeps The reticent volcano keeps His never-slumbering plan; Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man. If nature will not tell the tale Jehovah told to her Can human nature not survive Without a listener? Admonished by her buckled lips Let every babbler be The only secret people keep Is immortality. -- Emily Dickinson

I really liked the volcano imagery, especially because it suggests that
a silent person has a never slumbering plan, and he never confides it to
those it affects - the men who eke out a precarious existence on its
slopes. I also really liked the last two lines - I think the way
immortality is used to illustrate that people can never keep things to
themselves is amazing.

Basically I like this poem because most people talk too much and just
can't keep quiet, even when I ignore them and maintain a stony silence.
One more thought - why are people so uncomfortable even with friendly
silences? Why must they rush to fill them in with higgledy-piggledy
words?

Zenobia.

The cricket sang -- Emily Dickinson

Not cricket? You decide...

(Poem #950) The cricket sang The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one, Their seam the day upon. The low grass loaded with the dew, The twilight stood as strangers do With hat in hand, polite and new, To stay as if, or go. A vastness, as a neighbor, came,-- A wisdom without face or name, A peace, as hemispheres at home,-- And so the night became. -- Emily Dickinson

One of Dickinson's many impressive poetic talents is the ability to write in
a wonderfully and deliberately quirky style, and yet not have that
quirkiness become the focus of the poem, or overshadow its more 'poetic'
aspects. Today's poem doesn't *quite* succeed in that particular regard -
the convoluted syntax is obtrusive, and forces several readings of the poem,
but that is not necessarily a bad thing, and indeed, the poem itself is
quite beautiful, packing several layers of imagery into a few
precisely-chosen words.

The images themselves are original and evocative (and sometimes even both
<g>) - the cricket singing the sun into setting (compare Thomas's "wild men
who caught and sang the sun in flight"), the workmen seaming[1] up the day,
the startlingly apt comparison in the second verse, and the unoriginal but
very well executed last verse.

Note, too, the deceptively regular-seeming verse, both in terms of metrical
structure and rhyme. Particularly impressive is how well the short first
verse blends into the longer (by a whole line[2]) second and third verses,
though the varying rhyme scheme is handled perfectly too.

[1] though I am unable to decide quite what Dickinson intended here - there
is the obvious sense of stitching, but the OED also gives "Agric. A furrow,
(seed) drill.", and the more I think about it, the more appropriate a usage
it seems in context.
[2] if you count lines one and two as a single, broken line

Links:

  Set to music by Ernst Bacon:
    [broken link] http://www.recmusic.org/lieder/d/dickinson/cricket.html

  Biography:
    Poem #92

  Dickinson poems on Minstrels:
    Poem #92, "There's a certain Slant of light"
    Poem #174, "A Route of Evanescence"
    Poem #341, "The Grass so little has to do -"
    Poem #458, "The Chariot"
    Poem #529, "If you were coming in the fall"
    Poem #580, "Split the Lark"
    Poem #687, "Success is counted sweetest"
    Poem #711, "I'm Nobody! Who are you?"
    Poem #829, "It dropped so low in my regard"
    Poem #871, "I felt a Funeral, in my Brain"
    Poem #891, "A Doubt If It Be Us"

  And the cricket theme:
    Poem #946, Sir Henry Newbolt, "Vitai Lampada"
    Poem #947, John Kendal, "Ballad of a Homeless Bat"
    Poem #948, Julia A. Moore, "Grand Rapids Cricket Club"
    Poem #949, Andrew Lang, "Brahma"

-martin

A Doubt If It Be Us -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Connie Rockman

There is an Emily Dickinson poem that has been important to me for years,
not one of her better known poems, I think, but startlingly appropriate in
the wake of the tragedy . . .

(Poem #891) A Doubt If It Be Us A doubt if it be Us Assists the staggering Mind In an extremer Anguish Until it footing find. An Unreality is lent, A merciful Mirage That makes the living possible While it suspends the lives. -- Emily Dickinson

Written about 1864, perhaps in response to the horrors of the Civil War
. . . perhaps to reflect on some personal trauma . . . in her inimitable
way, Dickinson speaks from the deepest recesses of the human soul,
giving words to feelings that many of us find impossible to express.

Connie Rockman,
Stratford, CT

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem submitted by Nick Grundy, in response
to yesterday's offering:

(Poem #871) I felt a Funeral, in my Brain I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading--treading--till it seemed That Sense was breaking through-- And when they all were seated, A Service, like a Drum-- Kept beating--beating--till I thought My Mind was going numb-- And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With those same Boots of Lead, again, Then Space--began to toll, As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race Wrecked, solitary, here-- And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down-- And hit a World, at every plunge, And Finished knowing--then-- -- Emily Dickinson

How strange - I first read the Hopkins poem (#870) last week in a book by
Andrew Solomon about depression called "The Noonday Demon" (it's wonderful,
but this is not a book advert).  If you feel like running a depression theme
- I don't know if you have already - another one Solomon used which is also
a bit of a favourite of mine is the Emily Dickinson above.  Reading the one
after the other, there's a rather lovely counterpoise between them: the
rhythm of the Dickinson is measured where the Hopkins is frantic, but
strangely (given that she uses "I" and he "we") I find the Hopkins more
personal or individual.

I hadn't thought of the poem, before reading Solomon, as being about
depression, and of course I suppose one shouldn't really say it's *about*
anything, but to my mind reading it as such makes the sense break through
more forcefully than before.  Not to, um, coin a phrase.

Nick.

[Minstrels Links]

The Hopkins poem referred to above:
Poem #870, No worst, there is none

Other poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins:
Poem #59, To a Young Child
Poem #3, Inversnaid
Poem #35, The Windhover
Poem #134, Pied Beauty
Poem #260, Moonrise
Poem #606, God's Grandeur

Other poems by Emily Dickinson:
Poem #92, There's a certain Slant of light
Poem #174, A Route of Evanescence
Poem #341, The Grass so little has to do -
Poem #458, The Chariot
Poem #529, If you were coming in the fall
Poem #580, Split the Lark
Poem #687, Success is counted sweetest
Poem #711, I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Poem #829, It dropped so low in my regard

It dropped so low in my regard -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem submitted by Caroline Mann:

(Poem #829) It dropped so low in my regard It dropped so low in my regard I heard it hit the ground, And go to pieces on the stones At the bottom of my mind; Yet blamed the fate that fractured, less Than I reviled myself For entertaining plated wares Upon my silver shelf. -- Emily Dickinson

This is one of my favorite poems because of the thought expressed. I love
the
inherent ambiguity and the powerful resolution. It is a perfect example of
Dickinson's strong ability to express intangible ideas with physical and
metaphorical imagery. She turns abstractions into overcoming inventions.
Suddenly, self-delusion becomes a crashing plate; the reader can just hear
the
shattering regret. Of course, this is only my vision; the poem is highly
interpretational.

As with most of Dickinson's work, this poem is condensed truth. Her rhythm
is
flawless, and the diction is beyond accurate. Dickinson was known to obsess
over word choice. Mostly, I love her for her complexity, possessing quietude

and urgency all at once. She is a truly magnificent poet.

Caroline.

[Minstrels Links]

Emily Dickinson:
Poem #92, There's a certain Slant of light
Poem #174, A Route of Evanescence
Poem #341, The Grass so little has to do -
Poem #458, The Chariot
Poem #529, If you were coming in the fall
Poem #580, Split the Lark
Poem #687, Success is counted sweetest
Poem #711, I'm Nobody! Who are you?

I'm Nobody! Who are you? -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Ashwin

(Poem #711) I'm Nobody! Who are you? I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you--Nobody--Too? Then there's a pair of us? Don't tell! they'd advertise--you know! How dreary--to be--Somebody! How public--like a Frog-- To tell one's name--the livelong June-- To an admiring Bog! -- Emily Dickinson

I prefer not to subject this poem to a deep analysis - drawing
elaborate analogies to life or our present day society and so on.
The language is , IMHO, sufficiently plain and hard-hitting  to convey
Dickinson's feelings. What catches my fancy is the whimsical punctuation
and the only too evident sarcasm.

Ashwin

Links:

No shortage of Dickinson's poems on Minstrels; there's a biography at
  poem #92

[And yes, you can sing this one TTTO 'The Yellow Rose of Texas' :) - m.]

Success is counted sweetest -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem submitted by Ashwin Mahalingam:

(Poem #687) Success is counted sweetest Success is counted sweetest By those who ne'er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple Host Who took the Flag to-day Can tell the definition, So clear, of Victory, As he, defeated, dying, On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Break, agonized and clear. -- Emily Dickinson

(1864)

When I first read this poem (in 6th grade) I was cynical enough to scoff at
it. However, like most of us I have 'been there' often enough to know that
the feeling of being 'so near and yet so far', agonizingly brings home the
point that it is in defeat that we truly learn to appreciate victory - so
much so, that the more the defeats, the sweeter the success.
  In a competition of the sort that Dickinson writes about, where there are
winners and losers, to accept a win is to accept the concept of a loss. For
by the very nature of the contest, there can be no definition of a win that
does not imply the definition of the loss. The knowledge of what you have is
a function of the knowledge of what you don't or could have had.
  About the poem itself, I love its simplicity and its brevity. Dickinson
makes her point very quickly and leaves it at that, allowing the reader to
further carry on the train of thought. I also like the way she exaggerates
the ostensible difference between the winner and the loser... the winner is
'the purple host who takes the flag' while the loser is injured, in pain,
dying... partly due to being bested and partly due to the knowledge that
he/she has been bested.

Ashwin.

Split the Lark -- Emily Dickinson

Not had a Dickinson in a while...

(Poem #580) Split the Lark Split the Lark--and you'll find the Music-- Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled-- Scantily dealt to the Summer Morning Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old. Loose the Flood--you shall find it patent-- Gush after Gush, reserved for you-- Scarlet Experiment! Sceptic Thomas! Now, do you doubt that your Bird was true? -- Emily Dickinson

An exquisite poem, mixing imagery in a way that few other poets would be able
to get away with. Countless poets have attempted to capture the essence of
music in a number of images, but Dickinson's is surely one of the most
beautiful I've seen.

Today's poem seems to be highly allusive, and I'm not sure I've not missed a
reference or two. One obvious allusion in the first verse, for instance, is
to the goose that laid the golden eggs (a reading supported by the use of
'bulb'), but do the next two lines refer to anything? Likewise, the second
verse refers to the New Testament story of Doubting Thomas, who refused to
believe that Jesus had risen 'Except I shall see in his hands the print of
the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and thrust my hand
into his side'. And the Bird (tying rather neatly in with the first verse)
is probably a reference to the Holy Spirit descending upon Christ in the
form of a dove, but if anyone has something stronger to suggest do write in.

Dickinson:

See the comments after 'There's a Certain Slant of Light', poem #92

The above poem presents another of Dickinson's startlingly original
comparisons, incidentally (again involving music, though on the other side
of the equation).

Links:

The story of Doubting Thomas is in John 20:
http://www.hti.umich.edu/cgi/k/kjv/kjv-idx?type=DIV2&byte=4862513

Here's a discussion of the poem:
[broken link] http://lal.cs.byu.edu/mlists/emweb/199808/19980816-1.html

The poem has been set to music by Paul Schwartz:
[broken link] http://www.recmusic.org/lieder/d/dickinson/lark.html

-martin

If you were coming in the fall -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem submitted by Neha Kumar:

(Poem #529) If you were coming in the fall If you were coming in the fall, I'd brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As housewives do a fly. If I could see you in a year, I'd wind the months in balls, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls. If only centuries delayed, I'd count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen's land. If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I'd toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity. But now, all ignorant of the length Of time's uncertain wing, It goads me, like the goblin bee, That will not state its sting. -- Emily Dickinson

While going over the Dickinson poems in the Minstrels archive I found this one
missing... it's one of my favorites from all of her works, I guess mostly for
its simple expression of undying, though unrequited, love.

Compared to most of her works, this poem is quite simply written, easy to
understand and easy to appreciate. I think it especially beautiful for how
effortlessly and effectively it captures the sands of time: ".. wind the months
in balls", "If only centuries delayed, I'd count them on my hand". This tone of
hope of the poem undergoes a change to one of despair in the key (last) stanza,
where the agony that remained successfully hidden in the rest of the poem is
finally expressed.

The style spelt out Dickinson to me, but I couldn't think of anything to say on
that. I thought it would be nice to see this on the mailing list. Dickinson
doesn't seem to be too popular there and I think that's a shame, for of the
roughly 1800 poems that she did write, there are a few that I feel are worth a
read still, to say the very least... I thought the above was one. And I remember
when we did Dickinson's works in High School, this one was introduced to us as
one of her best few and it was fun explicating it!

Neha.

PS. Van Diemen's Land - now Tasmania.