Tag: roses

like flakes, like stars

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They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,
Like petals from a rose,
When suddenly across the June
A wind with fingers goes.

They perished in the seamless grass,—
No eye could find the place;
But God on his repealless list
Can summon every face.

~Emily Dickinson
Image via Pexels.com

What a shift this is from some of the other Dickinson death poems I’ve read so far this month! Unlike the God who lets children perish unremarked, the God of this poem remembers every face among those who have died. There must have been so much going on inside Dickinson’s head at any given time. I have to wonder if her poetry was an overpressure valve, a way to let out some of the bottled thought before she imploded.

I chose this poem for today not because of the death, though, or the theology, but for the mention of falling stars. The Geminid meteor shower is beginning. You can read about it here. It will be peaking this weekend, and while the waning full moon will make it harder to see meteors, some should be visible nonetheless, and the clear winter air will make up in part for the brightness of the moon.

A meteor is a strange and wondrous thing. Some no bigger than grains, they streak the sky, their death-throes moments of beauty and awe. Each trail of light is the flaming disintegration of a unique piece of matter that is no more. How like soldiers falling. How like a thousand, thousand deaths.

But there is so much beauty in this destruction. Each fall is a flash of wonder, a shred of insight into the workings of the deep heavens.

I hope you find some magic in the night sky.

Recipe for a rose

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A sepal, petal, and a thorn
Upon a common summer’s morn,
A flash of dew, a bee or two,
A breeze
A caper in the trees,—
And I ’m a rose!

~Emily Dickinson
Image via Pexels.com.

This is a small and charming poem. Dickinson seems to be laying out the recipe for making a rose. All the usual parts are required–but there’s more. A rose is made of more than itself. In order for it to really be a rose, the rest of nature is required–water, air, other living things. What’s really lovely about this poem is Dickinson’s characteristically evocative language–“a flash of dew,” “a caper in the trees”–and how she interrupts her own meter in the fifth line.

These things are all that are required, according to the poet, to become a rose. There’s one more thing, though, that she doesn’t mention but rather demonstrates–a rich and lively imagination.

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.

Perspective

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IT makes no difference abroad,
The seasons fit the same,
The mornings blossom into noons,
And split their pods of flame.


Wild-flowers kindle in the woods,
The brooks brag all the day;
No blackbird bates his jargoning
For passing Calvary.


Auto-da-fé and judgment
Are nothing to the bee;
His separation from his rose
To him seems misery.

~Emily Dickinson

I had to look up “auto-da-fé,” and wow. Basically, it’s an allusion to the Inquisition. You can read a definition here.

That one word crystallizes the meaning of the poem. Dickinson is comparing the eternal cycles of nature to the most extreme that humanity has to offer–Calvary, the Inquisition–and concluding that really, none of that human stuff matters to nature. Our doings, which seem so momentous to us, are nothing to nature. Our beliefs, religions, dogmas, don’t matter beyond ourselves.

On one hand, it’s a terrifying thought–everything we get so riled up about doesn’t really matter in the end, or at least doesn’t matter beyond ourselves. On the other hand, it’s comforting–perhaps a little bit of much-needed perspective. The world will go on without us.

With a Flower

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WHEN roses cease to bloom, dear,
And violets are done,
When bumble-bees in solemn flight
Have passed beyond the sun,

The hand that paused to gather
Upon this summer’s day
Will idle lie, in Auburn–
Then take my flower, pray!

Emily Dickinson

Both of my grandmothers were prolific gardeners, and so, apparently, was my great aunt Ruth. She died either the day before or after I was born–I’ve always loved that, and can never remember which is true–and my parents bought her house and we moved in when I was 2. She planted camellias absolutely everywhere, and they’re still there, bright hot pink lights in the winter.

My maternal grandmother, Maw-Maw, I remember more for her vegetable garden, but her blueberry bushes and peach trees are fresh in my mind (and in my tastebuds). My paternal grandmother, Grannie, had the most lovely red spider lilies outside her front window.

Maybe that’s why I don’t read this poem and immediately imagine it written to a lover. I think about the gardeners who lived before me, who planted things I still get to see, and I think about my daylilies in the front yard and the Felicia rose in the backyard that will, hopefully, live for a very long time. I hope that they’re still going after I’m gone.

When roses cease to bloom and bumblebees have flown beyond the sun–there must still be some flowers to gather, so I can’t think that Dickinson is imagining the end of the world. She’s still lying in repose, after all. Auburn, I’m supposing, is the city in Massachusetts, about an hour’s drive from Amherst. In typical Dickinson fashion, she’s telling us to take the flowers from her grave, I think. And I think my grandmothers would approve.

LXV

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ESSENTIAL oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws.

The general rose decays;
But this, in lady’s drawer,
Makes summer when the lady lies
In ceaseless rosemary.

I was unemployed for a long time after I finished my masters, and if there’s one thing that I heard over and over–and which helped my peace of mind exactly none–it’s this: yes, life is hard now, but this trying time will make you stronger. If there’s any true piece of advice that people hate to receive more than this, I’d love to know it.

Dickinson’s point here is that in order to extract the attar (literally, the rose’s essential oil), you have to put the rose through the ringer. You can’t ask it nicely, or wait for it to dry in the sun–you have to process it. Leave the roses on the vine? They’ll decompose. But their essential oil, the perfume that remains after the extraction, will last forever. This will preserve the smell of summer even in the coldest months, even when the lady who purchased it–or for whom it was purchased–has died, and only rosemary (the herb of remembrance) remains of her.

So the roses went through a process and the bit that was left–the distilled oil–comes out fragrant, long-lasting, desired. Part of me wants to find this beautiful. Part of me is very tired of having to be personally distilled in order to come out the other side stronger, smarter, or at least employed.

This is the first Dickinson poem that has wholly embodied melancholy this year. Here’s to coming out the other side as fresh as rosewater.