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Renunciation

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THERE came a day at summer’s full
Entirely for me;
I thought that such were for the saints,
Where revelations be.

The sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no soul the solstice passed
That maketh all things new.

The time was scarce profaned by speech;
The symbol of a word
Was needless, as at sacrament
The wardrobe of our Lord.

Each was to each the sealed church,
Permitted to commune this time,
Lest we too awkward show
At supper of the Lamb.

The hours slid fast, as hours will,
Clutched tight by greedy hands;
So faces on two decks look back,
Bound to opposing lands.

And so, when all the time had failed,
Without external sound,
Each bound the other’s crucifix,
We gave no other bond.

Sufficient troth that we shall rise–
Deposed, at length, the grave–
To that new marriage, justified
Through Calvaries of Love!

Emily Dickinson

Today, we have a long poem to tell you: Happy Solstice. How are you celebrating?

A wounded deer leaps highest

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A WOUNDED deer leaps highest,
I’ve heard the hunter tell;
‘Tis but the ecstasy of death,
And then the brake is still.

The smitten rock that gushes,
The trampled steel that springs:
A cheek is always redder

Just where the hectic stings!
Mirth is the mail of anguish,
In which it cautious arm,
Lest anybody spy the blood
And “You’re hurt” exclaim!

Emily Dickinson

This is the “I’m fine” of poems.

“How are you?” asks the cashier, your aunt, a friend.

Here is what you say: “I’m fine.”

Here is what you want to say: “I’m worried about my job. My kids aren’t sleeping at night. There are five chipmunks digging up all of my gladiolus bulbs and I spent money on those things and I am beyond irritated. I have a new mole and I’m afraid. That root canal is going to be expensive. I don’t know when my next paycheck is coming. I would rather eat a hundred raw worms than cook supper tonight. I’m hurting. I’ve been depressed for a while but I’m not telling anybody about it. Today has been hard and tomorrow will be harder.”

You smile and say that you’re fine.

Has Emily not hit the nail on the head here? Why is “mirth . . . the mail of anguish” unless it’s because we think we can disguise sadness with a fake smile?

Why are we still doing this?

My goal for us is to no longer be that deer, that steel, that smiling cheek. Let’s be honest.

Prompt: Sunset

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Where ships of purple gently toss
On seas of daffodil,
Fantastic sailors mingle,
And then–the wharf is still.

Emily Dickinson

This one is short and sweet, and above all else, I can see it. We’re watching a sunset, and the sun is just a slit of yellow over the horizon; purple is descending. In the last fading sunlight, long shapes of color thin out and change hues and, at last, disappear.

For today’s prompt, consider answering the following question in your own way, in your own poem: how else is a sunset like a body of water? What kind of feelings do the two evoke?

XLII: I WONDER if the sepulchre

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I WONDER if the sepulchre
Is not a lonesome way,
When men and boys, and larks and June
Go down the fields to hay!

Emily Dickinson

I love a poem that can be read two ways. This one is no exception. It looks simple, at first: probably the speaker is wondering if the sepulchre, or grave, is lonesome when it’s June and all of the men are going into the fields to make hay, and the birds, I suppose, are following them.

But what if the speaker is arguing the opposite? What if, as she says, the sepulchre “is not a lonesome way” (emphasis mine) when this haying is happening?

Presumably, the sepulchre is not in the hay fields. So who, then, is visiting the grave when the men are working?

Well, one presumes, the women. While the men are cutting the grass, and thereby making hay from the fallen strands, maybe the women are visiting the dead. So the two are dealing with death in different ways: the men are hastening it to make hay; the women are visiting it.

What do you think? Is the sepulchre lonely or not?

What’s in a title?

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PIGMY seraphs gone astray,
Velvet people from Vevay,
Belles from some lost summer day,
Bees’ exclusive coterie.
Paris could not lay the fold
Belted down with emerald;
Venice could not show a cheek
Of a tint so lustrous meek.
Never such an ambuscade
As of brier and leaf displayed
For my little damask maid.
I had rather wear her grace
Than an earl’s distinguished face;
I had rather dwell like her
Than be Duke of Exeter,
Royalty enough for me
To subdue the bumble-bee!

~Emily Dickinson

Pam: I like how the point of this poem seems to be that roses are better than people, because Emily, I completely agree. Sometimes, at least!

Brenna: Are roses ever worse than people? I mean.

Pam: But people are definitely frequently worse than roses.

Brenna: I love that she calls them “Velvet people.” “From Vevay,” whatever the heck that means. Now I Google!!

Pam: That’s the first thing I did!!

Brenna: First Google search result for “Vevay”: a town in Indiana. 😀

Pam: Apparently it’s a town in Indiana, which is named for a town in Switzerland.

Brenna: Okay, that makes more sense.

Pam: But that one is spelled “Vevey.” So is Emily’s spelling off, or did she really love Indiana?

Brenna: I cannot see Emily waxing poetic about Indiana. We’re talking about a person who thinks most bees are male, so I’m gonna go with “Emily’s spelling is off.” Could she have done it on purpose? Conflating Vevay and Vevey might underscore her point about how it doesn’t really matter who you are or where you’re from. Vevay, Vevey, whatever, roses are better.

Since she goes on to name Paris and Venice, and reference London, I feel like she’s going for the European city.

Pam: I think that’s a very interesting point! This is one of those (myriad) times when I wish we could call her up and ask her.

Brenna: Right?!Every other line…..

Pam: Agreed. She’s comparing roses to these European highlights.

Brenna: I just can’t get over the loveliness of referring to flowers as “velvet people.” I love it.

Pam: And specifically, places of fashion, I guess?

Brenna: Yes! Exclusive places.

Pam: Same. And she’s exactly right. There’s no other way to describe the texture of those really huge roses. They’re velvety! I like that this poem incorporates the sense of touch. Usually we write about roses’ scent, but I don’t think she touches on that here!

Brenna: Oooh, good point! There’s no scent at all in this poem. It’s all sight and touch.

Pam: This is all to show us that no matter what fine clothes you might wear, you will never be as high fashion as a rose. Isn’t that odd? She doesn’t touch on thorns, either.

Brenna: She does mention “brier.”

Pam: You’re right!! I totally missed that one.

Brenna: I think it’s a good observation, though. “Brier” is fairly subtle. Usually she likes to overtly remind us of something painful or mortal, something that mars the perfection. But this is 100% positive.

Pam: I also love that, despite talking about the “fashion” of roses, she’s comparing them to men. An earl? Nope, you’re nothing. Duke of Exeter? No thank you, I’d rather be a rose.

Brenna: Yes! And her roses are exclusively feminine. I so want this to be some kind of feminist manifesto.

Pam: I think it absolutely can be! She could have gone the “singing flowers in Alice in Wonderland” route, but she’s solely comparing them to the men, who are lacking.

Brenna: The undervalued–whether it’s nature vs. humans, men vs. women, rural vs. cultured–is always better. In this poem.

Pam: And, as you said, she talks of bees as male, yes? But says that roses–feminine–subdue them.

Brenna: Yup. She always thinks bees are dudes. Which was apparently a common misconception at the time. The fact that worker bees are female (that most bees are female) had been discovered, but a lot of people either didn’t realize or didn’t accept that fact.

Pam: To her eyes, flowers are producers and bees are takers, yes? It makes sense to equate them with specific genders if she thinks of them that way.

Brenna: There are other poems where she depicts bees as conquerors of flowers. But in this one, she flips that model. The rose vanquishes the bee. In one of the poems I read earlier this week, the bee is a knight. But in this one, the rose is victorious.

Pam: The title is telling, too, I think. This is not some rose that she sees out in town; it’s hers. She grew it. Her rose is better, stronger.

Brenna: Though the title isn’t hers, right?

Pam: Oh, you’re right! Darn it, collectors of the poems.

Brenna: Right?! Sometimes a title is so perfect, and then I have to remind myself that she never intended it.

Pam: She does say “my little damask maid.” So maybe it’s hers? It would have been such a good title, too!!

Brenna: Yes! And I think the general tone of the poem is very much a “MY thing is better than OTHER things” kind of vibe. Just because my thing is humbler and natural and everywhere and free, it’s not less than high-falutin’ things. My thing is, in fact, better than all those other things. And dudes.

Pam: Yes. Exactly. My thing is naturally better without having to put on airs or wear the latest clothing. It just is.

Brenna: Yes. She does a lot of this, doesn’t she? Arguing for the simple pleasures over the elaborate ones.

Pam: Yes. In this case, I get the sense that she’s saying, so what if I’m a bit of a homebody who really loves gardening? If it produces this kind of perfection, who wouldn’t be in love with it?

Brenna: Yes. She’s very insistent on herself, on her own identity and preferences. I like that. It’s very un-nineteenth-century of her.

Pam: Brenna, apparently damask is a kind of rose! I thought it odd to associate that fabric with plainness, but a damask rose is a highly scented one. So she is talking about fragrance after all!

Brenna: I knew damask was a rose, but I had no idea about the fragrance! Oooh, well-played, Emily!

Pam: I think I learn something new with every poem, honestly.

Brenna: SAME. And it does double-duty for touch because of course damask is also fabric and she knew it.

Pam: And now I’m looking at fragrant roses that are out of stock, so thank you for prompting me to empty my bank account but at a time of year when it’s not possible, Emily!

Brenna: Well, we learned about damask and Vevay, but otherwise I feel like this one is oddly straightforward. It seems like the happy ones usually are.

Pam: I appreciate that. She’s delivering a pretty forceful message and she’s not hiding in it.

The sun’s leaving

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The sun just touched the morning;
The morning, happy thing,
Supposed that he had come to dwell,
And life would be all spring.


She felt herself supremer,—
A raised, ethereal thing;
Henceforth for her what holiday!
Meanwhile, her wheeling king


Trailed slow along the orchards
His haughty, spangled hems,
Leaving a new necessity,—
The want of diadems!


The morning fluttered, staggered,
Felt feebly for her crown,—
Her unanointed forehead
Henceforth her only one.

~Emily Dickinson

Getting caught up on a zillion neglected things this Memorial Day weekend, so today’s post is just a poem and the sun setting over the Alleghenies. Here’s to sun-filled days and starry nights!

Short but sweet

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How still the bells in steeples stand.
Till, swollen with the sky,
They leap upon their silver feet
In frantic melody!

~Emily Dickinson

It’s been a very long day, so I’m going to file this one under “Let’s Not Overthink It and Just Enjoy the Poem” and call it a day. Have a wonderful weekend!

Truth

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There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul –

~Emily Dickinson

It’s so true. That’s all for today. Go lose yourself in a good book.

Rest at Night

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Rest at Night
The Sun from shining,
Nature—and some Men—
Rest at Noon—some Men—
While Nature
And the Sun—go on—

Emily Dickinson

Have you ever had a week so long that it felt like an actual month? I just exited one of those, and so I leave you with this poem, so that I, too, can rest at night.