Life, and Death, and Giants—

Life, and Death, and Giants—
Such as These—are still—
Minor—Apparatus—
Hopper of the Mill—
Beetle at the Candle—
Or a Fife's Fame—
Maintain—by Accident
that they proclaim—

     -FR777, J706, Fascicle 37, 1863

This poem continues the near nihilistic bent of fascicle 37 so far. In the first poem in the fascicle, FR773, Dickinson says that she senses a friendly and hospitable Presence in the vastness of space, but, after she gets that caveat out of the way, the next few poems are rather bleak.

This one seems to say that the things that feel Giant to us, like Life and Death and Fame, are all just small parts of a machine, and, moreover, merely accidents of nature.

In the first metaphor here, Life is compared to fodder for the mill. That seems stark, but if our lives are in a hopper awaiting the machinations of the mill, then it follows that something is being processed on the other side of that mill, like the way paper is made from trees. It’s interesting to think this metaphor through, to think of our bodies composting in the ground as a kind of mill from which life is reborn, or, perhaps, to think of our experiences as being grist for, say, a poem. 

The second metaphor shows us a beetle coming out of the dark toward a flame, presumably to be consumed by the fire, or perhaps to be quickly stepped on. Here we have visions of Kafka’s Gregor Samsa, waking up as a giant insect.

The flame here seems more in service of exposing the painful truth of the situation than it does in warming up the subject, but, nonetheless, you might say that, at least for a moment, there was some light and warmth for the lowly beetle. 

The last metaphor is my favorite of the bunch. Life is like a "Fife’s Fame." We believe we are making such grand music, but in the big scheme of things life is more like the music of a tin flute than it is like a symphonic orchestra. Okay, fine, but, again, I can’t help but note, at least there is music!

Life may be predicated on the accidental, and all “proclaiming” be therefore ironic, as this poem seems to, ironically, “proclaim,” but hey, you still have the product of the mill, the light of the candle and the small and tinny, but still miraculous, music from the flute.

You need not spin this poem in a positive light as I have to done here. It's helpful to remember that the things we see looming so large can be seen as small, and even terrible, accidents of nature. But isn't it interesting that the metaphors provided here by Dickinson point us back toward light and music, and even, with that mill, toward the productive?

The minor apparatus, when seen from the other side of the binoculars, are Giant indeed. 

       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Manet's "The Fifer" -1866

(playing an F note, the internet informs me)

Note:

This poem is laid out very differently by Christanne Miller in "Emily Dickinson's Poems as She Preserved Them."  It’s very difficult, in looking at the MS of the fascicle, to know how this poem is supposed to go on the page. It does seem, by looking at the MS, as if “Minor—Apparatus— Hopper of the Mill—” is all supposed to go on one line, but it makes so much more sense to split this line in two and keep this poem at 3 beats per measure, so that’s what I’ve done here. If Life and Death, which seem Giant, are still minor apparatus, then perhaps we could say that punctuation, and seemingly minor details like the layout of poems, seem small, but are major apparatus. 

Drama’s Vitallest Expression

Drama’s Vitallest Expression
is the Common Day
That arise and set about Us—
Other Tragedy

Perish in the Recitation—
This—the best enact
When the Audience is scattered
And the Boxes shut—

“Hamlet” to Himself were Hamlet—
Had not Shakespeare wrote—
Though the “Romeo” left no Record
Of his Juliet,

It were infinite enacted
In the Human Heart—
Only Theatre recorded
Owner cannot shut—


     -FR776, J741, Fascicle 37, 1863


Drama! Dickinson’s life, for all of her supposed reclusivity, was full of it. Just look at the love triangle with her brother and Sue Gilbert, or the purported relationship she had with the famous married Pastor, Charles Wadsworth. 

Drama’s Vitallest Expression
is the Common Day
That arise and set about Us—

You don’t have to go to the theater for high drama. It is “Common” and part of everyday life. And, besides, it is more “Vital” than the drama in the theaters. It lives in us more than drama in the theater because it is our life.

I like the line, "That arise and set about us.” Where does this Drama come from? It arises. And then, rather sinisterly, it sets about us. It comes from seemingly nowhere, and then traps us in.

Other Tragedy

Perish in the Recitation—

Tragedies for the stage perish as soon as they are recited. But ours go on and on. You can see this thought extended from the poems preceding this one in the fascicle. In FR775, the poem directly before this one, there is the idea that our suspense (our worries and fears) never “Perish” as long as we are alive, but keep being born anew. We see Dickinson turning that word, “Perish,” over in her mind again here. Our suspense doesn’t perish in life, nor does our Drama. The actors get to take off their stage make up. We don’t. There is also a correlation between suspense and drama in these two poems too. Both of them are aspects of good theater.

This—the best enact

I love that word “best” there. What does Dickinson mean by best? Best…actors, because it's real? Best… people, because the best of us still have to deal with drama? Or maybe even, the best people are those with drama in their lives? I think there is something to this for Dickinson. I think back to FR706, when Dickinson speaks of that “white sustenance/ Despair.” Dickinson seems to esteem the drama of life, as something that sustains, even as she despairs of it. It’s the paradox of her art.

When the Audience is scattered
And the Boxes shut—

Those words “scattered” and “shut” give an interesting counterpoint to each other. The audience is scattered, but we are left with our drama. The boxes are shut, but our drama is open ended.

“Hamlet” to Himself were Hamlet—
Had not Shakespeare wrote—

As I was reading the last two poems before this one in fascicle 37 I was reminded of Hamlet, and I even mentioned him in the commentary to FR774. There was just something about the dire quality of the diction in both poems that felt to me akin to the mind of Hamlet. So it was a shock of recognition to see him mentioned in this poem. It makes me wonder if Dickinson was reading the play around this time.

Shakespeare may have captured something with Hamlet, but the tragedy of Hamlet would live in us regardless of Shakespeare’s play. I appreciate the move of putting the quotes around the first “Hamlet" in this line, but not the second. It takes the referent from literature, in quotes, to real life, without quotes. It’s a subtle example of form mirroring content.

Though the “Romeo” left no Record
Of his Juliet,

It were infinite enacted
In the Human Heart—

Again with the quotes followed by no quotes.

To feel the terror of this poem, one has to remember the depth of tragedy evoked in Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet. Dickinson is not being arch here I don’t think. She is talking about the most heart-wrenching grief being, in actuality, a part of each of us.

I sometimes wonder why Dickinson didn’t write plays herself, but this poem gives you a sense of why. Her poetry is a kind of drama, after all, a soliloquy that mirrors real life and goes on and on, “infinite enacted.”

The idea of a drama being “infinite enacted” echoes the previous poem in the fascicle, FR775, which speaks of the “immortality” of suspense in our lives. The word “infinite” here does a lot of work. It gives us a sense of infinite pain, of an infinite amount of time, and of an infinite number of people. The Heart is made for infinite pain.

There is an alternate word for “infinite” in the fascicle, which is “tenderer.” While “infinite” is a strong word choice, I think “tenderer” is even stronger. It gives us the double sense of the heart being both sympathetic and fragile. It both sweetens and deepens the sense of pain at the same time. But perhaps this is one of those times when it is helpful to have both words, which gives us the sense that to be human is to be infinitely tender. Dickinson's alternate words may be read as part of the poem. Perhaps she even wanted us to see them that way. 

Only Theatre recorded
Owner cannot shut—

It’s unusual for Dickinson to repeat words in a poem, but in this one she does it twice. “Record” and “shut.” Dickinson, like Shakespeare, is recording her pain, but what she is recording in her Theatre, is the ongoingness of the drama, which can't be shut. It just keeps going on and on, like a broken record.

And the owner of this theater? Our self.

My 14 year old daughter just came home from school. I asked her if there was any drama in school. She said, “Always.” I said, “Really, always?” She said, “Yeah, that’s why I stopped watching Gossip Girl. There’s enough drama in real life.” Perfect timing.

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Notes:

1. This poem is trochaic in meter rather than the normal iambic. Dickinson uses this move often, and usually to give a sense of…drama. Drama itself is a trochee, and the word, this poem makes us realize, carries its own sense of drama. DRA!ma. If Dickinson is going to begin her poem with this sense of drama, then it makes sense that she would carry the inverted iambic meter throughout the rest of the poem.

2. The way Christanne Miller lays out this poem in “Emily Dickinson’s Poems as She Preserved Them” is with the first two lines as one. I’m sure Miller made this decision because the “is” is not capitalized in the fascicle. But if you look at the MS of the poem, you can see that the line is broken up after “Expression.” It makes more sense to me to lay it out the way I have done here because it fits Dickinson's typical 4/3 hymn meter. It seems a stretch to have a Dickinson poem start with a line of heptameter. It’s a judgement call. I love these little moments of confusion in trying to translate Dickinson’s handwriting into print. I like the weirdness of the long line, personally, but this layout makes more sense to me.

3. Dickinson wrote in a letter to Joseph Lymon, "Going home I flew to the shelves and devoured the luscious passages. I thought I should tear the leaves out as I turned them. Then I settled down to a willingness for all the rest to go but William Shakespeare. Why need we Joseph read anything else but him?"

Suspense—is Hostiler than Death—

Suspense—is Hostiler than Death—
Death—tho'soever Broad,
Is Just Death, and cannot increase—
Suspense—does not conclude—

But perishes—to live anew—
But just anew to die—
Annihilation—plated fresh
With Immortality—


      -FR775, J705, Fascicle 37, 1863


Suspense—is Hostiler than Death—

Death is final. There is nothing hostile about it, really. Death isn't scary. It's the anticipation of death that is terrifying. You could apply this logic to any finality, like, say, the finality of a relationship. One way you can read this poem is to learn to accept the end of things. 

Death—tho'soever Broad,
Is Just Death, and cannot increase—

Death is the broadest thing. It’s absolute. It’s so broad it covers all. But, in the end, it’s just death.

When you read the poems in the fascicles in order you watch Dickinson's mind move. In the poem that precedes this one, FR774, we note the lines, "An Altitude of Death, that could/ No bitterer debar/ Than Life” Death is something toward which we climb, because we are trying to climb out of life, which is more bitter than death. This is bleak, though I suppose it does offer, at least, the hope of “no more.” We see this line of thought continuing in this poem.

Suspense—does not conclude—

Death concludes, but Suspense, not so much. What is meant by suspense here? We are suspended in life, waiting to die. We are in suspense about what will happen after we die. We are in suspense about whether or not we will find love, or peace, in life. 

This poem seems to say that there can never be any real lasting peace in life.

There’s a apropos moment of suspense between the first and second stanza:

Suspense—does not conclude—

   

But perishes—to live anew—

Suspense does not conclude……..But perishes to live anew. It’s like a nightmare in which the fear just keeps returning. You end up in a circular hell,

But perishes—to live anew—
But just anew to die—

The worry goes away only to come back again, only so it can go away again. You can’t get rid of it, until you perish for good that is. Life is a state of constant tension and release. 

What’s a poor girl to do?

Annihilation—plated fresh
With Immortality—

These last two lines are tricky. I can see a few ways to take them. One way would be as a continuation of the preceding thought. The annihilation of suspense is "plated," or covered over, with Immortality. Suspense is always perishing, or being annihilated, and then coming back again, in what seems like an immortal loop. In other words, it feels like forever! 

There is also the possibility that she means these lines in the sense John Donne did when he wrote,

"One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die."

There is, perhaps, a hope of "Immortality" after death, a nod to some kind of afterlife, and the optimist in me certainly wants to believe this. But I think this poem is more about coming to terms with the endless recurrence of pain in life. The word "Immortality" is fascinating, especially as used by Dickinson. She wields it in so many ways. Here, though, I think she is using it in a darkly sarcastic way, pointing toward the apparent immortality of always returning to fear and worry.

The only thing that ever gets "born again," I fear, is fear, over and over again, until we are finally relieved of it by death.

Looking at that wonderful word in the second line, "tho'soever," makes me wonder if Dickinson is riffing off of the word “whosoever” in the famous scripture, John 3:15, “That whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life.” The word “perish” is here in this poem too, as well as the idea of eternal life, or immortality. It's the word "believeth" that is in question. Dickinson seems to have inverted the hopeful sense that is in the scripture. I don't believe Dickinson was a believer in an afterlife. Eternal life, in Dickinson’s brave telling, is, rather horribly, only the seemingly eternal return of suspense.

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

frame from 1919 film, "Suspense"

You taught me Waiting with Myself—

You taught me Waiting with Myself—
Appointment strictly kept—
You taught me fortitude of Fate—
This—also—I have learnt—

An Altitude of Death, that could
No bitterer debar
Than Life—had done—before it—
Yet—there is a Science more—

The Heaven you know—to understand
That you be not ashamed
Of Me—in Christ’s bright Audience
Upon the further Hand—

     -FR774, J740, Fascicle 37, 1863 

This is one of those Dickinson poems which, at first, underwhelmed me. Then I scratched a little deeper. And then a little deeper. And pretty soon I had a gusher on my hands.

What seems like a pretty straight forward poem about the virtues of patience and fortitude, turns out to be full of slant upon slant of meaning, wink upon wink of subtext. Let’s look at the first couplet.

You taught me Waiting with Myself—
Appointment strictly kept—

God, or some friend or lover, or perhaps life itself, teaches the poet to “Wait” with Herself. “Waiting with Myself—” I find these words inspiring. How hard is it to just wait with yourself? Are you like me, in that every moment of every day seems to be taken up with some way of avoiding the simple act of “Waiting with Myself”? This difficulty seems to me to be at the very core of our modern malaise.

Dickinson somehow manages it though. She says she keeps that appointment. 

Here you also have the first of several humorous turns in this poem. Usually you “wait” for an “appointment.” But one way to read those first two lines is that the appointment that is kept is the waiting, itself. That’s absurd, but also profound. An appointment implies a certain anxiety of accomplishment, but learning to wait is quite the opposite. It’s a bit like saying the journey is the destination.

There is also a wink in the diction here. It's a parody of formal bureaucratic business-speak, “appointment strictly kept.” Another way to read “Appointment” is as an appointment with death, or fate. If that’s the case, then the idea of strictly keeping that appointment is funny because, after all, it wouldn't be possible to not strictly keep that appointment.

You taught me fortitude of Fate—

“Fortitude of Fate” is, like “Waiting with Myself,” an inspiring phrase. That mouthful of fricatives is strong. ForTiTuDe of FaTe. What does it mean to learn fortitude of fate? You need fortitude to deal with your fate.

This—also—I have learnt—

There’s something slightly cheeky about this line too. She’s learned so much. She’s figured out the "fortitude of Fate" and gained some wisdom, yet she says it with a kind of calm finality. It’s almost like she’s speaking with the self-assurance of someone who’s just learned a secret and is saying, "Oh, I’ve got it all sorted now." It's a bit of a tongue-in-cheek way of presenting profound realization. There’s an understated humor in how it contrasts with the weight of what she's saying.

An Altitude of Death, that could
No bitterer debar
Than Life—had done—before it—

Wow. “An Altitude of Death.” What a way to think of death, as something we climb up towards, as a kind of achievement, albeit a vertiginous one. Death would appears to bar us from life, but NOT more bitterly than life has already barred us from life. Which is more bitter? Death, which bars us from life, or life itself keeping us from what we desire? This line has the dark sense of humor of Hamlet. Death seems to be higher than life only in the sense that it is not so bad. Yeesh.

Yet—there is a Science more—

I'd really like to know exactly what Dickinson means by science here. Is there a “method” to going beyond the bitterness of life, in transcending death? If so, what is it? Well, I suppose the first stanza has already laid out part of the science. You start with practicing waiting with your yourself. Then you learn fortitude by embracing life’s trials.

Then, moving onto the second stanza we get another part of the scientific equation. Accept death as natural, and even as the high point of life. Don’t be afraid of it, because the struggles of life can be more difficult than death itself.

There is more to this “science” in the third stanza, but let’s pause here for another joke I think Dickinson is making. To posit “science” against the mysteries of “fate” is ironic. There is a sense that Dickinson is, in a way, poking fun at how humans try to intellectualize or grasp these mysteries.

The Heaven you know—to understand
That you be not ashamed
Of Me—in Christ’s bright Audience
Upon the further Hand—

There are many ways you could parse the grammar of this last stanza. I take it like this. 

The Heaven you know—to understand 

Note that Dickinson does not use a capital “y” for “you” in this stanza. I take this to mean Dickinson’s not speaking to God, now, but to a human. Herself, or maybe Sue. (I personally think this poem is part of a larger conversation with Sue.) I think this line has a bit of a wink in it. How can anyone, with any absolute understanding, “know” Heaven? The line, “The heaven you know to understand” (read: “the Heaven you think you understand”) is undercut further with with the follow-up line, “that you be not ashamed/ of Me.” What does shame have to do with Heaven? Do you really know and understand heaven as you think you do? 

“Me” (unlike “you") is capitalized. if you look at just those last two lines, you get “Of Me—in Christ’s bright Audience/ Upon the further hand.” While you, who think you know heaven, are ashamed of me, I will be standing in the brightness of an audience with Christ. I picture Dickinson actually standing upon the hand of Christ. There is no shame. The audience is "bright." Dickinson makes a pun of “upon the other hand” and turns it into, “Upon the further hand.” It’s an amazing word substitution. Christ’s hand reaches out further. It doesn't shame. It welcomes. It reaches out.

“The Heaven you know—to understand / That you be not ashamed / Of Me—in Christ’s bright Audience” has a cheeky confidence. Dickinson might be suggesting that, ultimately, understanding the divine is not about an overwhelming fear of judgment, but rather about coming to a place where we are at peace with ourselves in the face of something transcendent. There’s a subtle humor in the way she frames this—a comfort in the idea that we needn’t be ashamed, as if the idea of standing before Christ might actually be more about reconciliation and understanding than fear.

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Leon Bonnat:  Roman Girl at Fountain

Conscious am I in my Chamber –

Conscious am I in my Chamber –
Of a shapeless friend –
He doth not attest by Posture –
Nor confirm – by Word –

Neither Place – need I present Him –
Fitter Courtesy
Hospitable intuition
Of His Company –

Presence – is His furthest license –
Neither He to Me
Nor Myself to Him – by Accent –
Forfeit Probity

Weariness of Him, were quainter
Than Monotony
Knew a Particle – of Space’s
Vast Society –

Neither if He visit Other –
Do He dwell – or Nay – know I –
But Instinct esteem Him
Immortality –

      – FR773, J679, fascicle 37, 1863

This poem marks the beginning of fascicle 37. I’ve come to view each fascicle as a discrete volume of poetry. Dickinson was very careful about her arrangement of everything, and I’m sure fascicles were no different. (See her childhood herbarium for an example of what I mean. The pages full of local flora are all beautifully arranged.) So when I start a new fascicle I find it as exciting as cracking a new book by my favorite author.

What a terrific start too. This fascicle begins with an exploration of consciousness itself, and consciousness’s instinctive sense of a loving Presence.

This is a poet zooming out, from her small chamber, to the largest of subjects, "Space's Vast Society." She begins,

Conscious am I in my Chamber –

This is the existential condition of mankind, no? We are timeless consciousness confined in the temporal chamber of our bodies.

What are we conscious of?

Of a shapeless friend –

It’s easy to skim past this simple referent, “friend,” but it says a lot. Perhaps it says everything. There is something friendly in the vastness. It is not just an endless void. There is “love” out there, even if that love is just in here.

I appreciate the adjective “shapeless," because the thing about this friendly Presence is that it is beyond a definite shape, which I take to also mean beyond definition. It’s not something that can be pinned down by man’s need to dissect or control it.

He doth not attest by Posture –

Since “He” has no shape, I assume there is no gender either ; ) We also note It has no “posture,” which I take to be a small jab at the “upright” posture of the pious and righteous, and of all posturing. It's funny that this is said in the biblical language of posturing, "doth not attest."

Nor confirm – by Word –

Also, it's interesting that this Presence is not speaking to us through “Word.” Most likely this is a sly reference to the Bible, which is commonly referred to as The Word of God. But it could refer to any words written by anybody. Nobody knows, even the poet, and the best she can do is intuit that this Presence is friendly.

Neither Place – need I present Him –
Fitter Courtesy
Hospitable intuition
Of His Company –

Neither in Word, nor in deed (posture) is the poet going to present (small p) this Presence (capital P). The best courtesy she will give to this Presence, and a more fitting one than Word or Deed, is to pass along her intuition of this friendliness. Her intuition is that this Presence is hospitable. It likes our company. We note the subtlety that the intuition itself is qualified as "hospitable." To see a friendly "Presence" in the universe is to be a friendly "Presence" in the universe. If our intuition is hospitable, then what we perceive is, in turn, hospitable. 

Presence – is His furthest license –

Mere Presence. That’s as far as this Presence can be presented by the poet.

Neither He to Me
Nor Myself to Him – by Accent –
Forfeit Probity

That’s an intriguing thought. To “forfeit probity” would mean to give up a sense of honesty, or decency, or righteous posture. This Presence has its own sense of Probity, as we have ours. I love the idea that our “accent,” the way we speak, our “Word” carries our own sense of personal Probity. In other words, we all have a different way of being honest and decent.

The way Dickinson puts this is so clever. We don’t have to Forfeit our own sense of Truth to someone else's definition, even for that of The Presence Itself. (I think Dickinson means something akin to God when she speaks of this Presence, but it would be loaded, and too definitive, I think, for her to use the word God.) And, even better, The Presence doesn’t have to Forfeit Its moral sense for us either. This is funny I think. It’s one thing to say that we need not give up our own sense of morality for someone else’s definition. But it's cheeky to say, essentially, that God need not give up His sense of morality for us.

Weariness of Him, were quainter
Than Monotony
Knew a Particle – of Space’s
Vast Society –

Okay, so the poet intuits that the Presence is friendly, but she also presents it as endlessly interesting to get to know. To become tired (weary) of Him would be less likely than if a particle of the universe could become bored by all of the vast “Society” of Space. It's a big party!

The use of the word “quainter” here is great. Quaint means pleasingly old-fashioned, but can carry a bit of sarcasm too. So here it reads like this, “Oh, so you find the vast universe weary and monotonous? Oh, that’s quaint.” Dickinson is smiling at our complaints of being tired and bored. She’s saying, “Look here! The universe is vastly interesting and friendly.”

Neither if He visit Other –
Do He dwell – or Nay – know I –
But Instinct esteem Him
Immortality –

Dickinson can’t speak for anyone else. This is her intuition only. Does He visit anyone else besides her? She can only speak for her own consciousness. Does He dwell in Her, or anywhere for that matter? She doesn’t know.

But her instinct is that this Presence is Immortal. Dickinson added an alternative word here for “Esteem” which is “Report.” This friendly Presence may or may not be Immortal, but the poet’s instinct reports It to be so, and even esteems It for being so.

Intuition tells the poet that there is a welcoming Presence, and her highly-honed instinct tells her it is both immensely vast (“Space’s Vast Society”) and Immortal.

That’s enough, yes?


              -/)dam Wade l)eGraff


              

Note: There is a variant of this poem that is addressed to Sue and signed "Emily." Sue was more traditionally religious in her beliefs than Emily and I think this poem, along with many many others by Dickinson, may be seen as part of an ongoing conversation the two women had about the subject of God over the 35 years they knew one another. 

Essential Oils―are wrung―

Essential Oils―are wrung―
The Attar from the Rose
Be not expressed by Suns―alone―
It is the gift of Screws―

The General Rose―decay―
But this―in Lady’s Drawer
Make Summer―When the Lady lie
In Ceaseless Rosemary―

        -Fr772, J675, Fascicle 34, 1863

This is the last poem of Fascicle 34, and it's a beauty. The poem can, itself, be compared to the attar from the rose. The physical flower, Emily, has long gone, but the poetry she leaves behind contains her condensed essence.  It's also worth noting that, just as this attar from the rose lies in the lady's drawer when summer has ended, Dickinson's poems were found in her drawer after she died. The poet's "sun" and "Summer" may be gone, but the roseate fragrance of her poetry remains for us in our own figurative winters.

The "screw" here then would be all of the sacrifices and work Dickinson put into the practice of poetry. The very form of the poem may also be seen as the screw. It's the perfectly crafted and condensed form which help "keep" the profound thoughts alive for us. There are a whole host of Emily Dickinson poems which may be read as expressing her poetics, in which she is commenting on the art of writing poetry, and this one is a prime example.

As I was researching this poem I came across a commentary by Ira Fader. I recommend reading the whole thing. It was a nice surprise to get the end of the essay and see the shout out to the Prowling Bee. Here's a lengthy excerpt from Ira's terrific meditation on this poem: 

"Emily Dickinson’s poetry is like a bowl of walnuts. A walnut has a shell-like fortress, and over the centuries we’ve invented some rather ornate screws to crack the walls and give ourselves the gift of its delicious seed.

A vintage nutcracker is a good metaphor for what I need when I read Dickinson’s poetry. I love her poetry. All of it. But she is, as they say, a tough nut to crack, and I have to work hard at it. But I keep turning that screw. I’ll read the poem many times, look up words in the Emily Dickinson Lexicon, search online, and crack open Helen Vendler’s book on Dickinson and several others I own. Keep turning the screw.

And at some point the implacable walnut shell cracks open, and inside there is always — a pearl.

That’s a metaphor within a metaphor, but it is wrong. A Dickinson poem doesn’t simply yield up its fruit or its seed, much less its pearls. No, you crack open the walnut, and inside is another walnut.

When I read Walt Whitman, we jauntily walk side by side down the road within his multitudinous world of wonder. When I read Dickinson, I don’t know if I am inside her mind or if she is inside mine. But I am always in a mysterious, perplexing, deeply thought-provoking, sometimes scary but always beautiful place.

Essential Oils are wrung is one of the first Dickinson poems I read when I started reading poetry more studiously in the past ten years. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I suspected I liked it. I suspected but couldn’t be sure because reading poetry, particularly hers, takes some getting used to. A new reader has to retrain the mind to stop reading narratively, linearly, and logically. And quickly. Speed-reading is poetry’s natural enemy.

And then Dickinson adds layers of her own brand of difficulty with startling syntax, grammatical license, capitalizations, odd dashes, and elisions in language.

I was captivated nonetheless by Essential Oils. It was an early lesson in finding enjoyment despite uncertainty in reading.

I could see the poem had something to do with summer, roses, and death. It was time to bring out the nutcracker.

Essential oils, of course, are the extracted oils of plants. The oils’ organic compounds are what gives the plant its fragrance, and these oils have been used in perfumes, sachets, cosmetics, and soaps for thousands of years. The oil from many delicate flowers and plants — including the rose — is extracted by a process of steam distillation, which causes the aromatic compounds in the petals to vaporize. The vapor is then condensed into a liquid and voila! essential oil. The rose has affirmed itself a soul.

But Dickinson tells us in the first line that “essential oils are wrung,” not distilled. And in particular, the attar of the rose — that is, its essential oil — is not “expressed” merely by basking in “the Suns” of a fragrant summer. No, the rose’s perfume is “expressed” by “Screws.” Did a “gift” ever sound so painful?

Curious. In the Emily Dickinson Lexicon, the word “screw” is defined not only as the spiral fastener we all know but also as a “press; [an] apparatus for extracting the essence.” In Dickinson’s time, the two most common methods of extracting essential oil from plants were steam distillation and expression. The proper method for extracting essential oil from rose petals was steam distillation. Expression, on the other hand, was used to extract the oils of citrus peels because these were much tougher than rose petals and would yield their fragrant compounds by being pressed in what was called an “expression machine.”

But Dickinson said the rose’s oils were wrung, were expressed by screws. Was she misattributing the gift of rose perfume to the torturous screws of an expression machine rather than the gentler steam of a distillation machine?

I am entirely certain the answer is “no.” Dickinson knew exactly what she was saying.

In the second stanza, Dickinson gently reminds us that life is fleeting: “The General Rose — decay — .” First of all, what an interesting phrase: the General Rose. I love that. It’s something bigger than this particular rose, bigger than the rose bush, bigger than Roses. The General Rose is life itself, it seems to me, manifest in flowers and in ourselves. We do not stand apart from the “General Rose,” and we too will “decay,” just like “the Lady” who lies “in Ceaseless Rosemary” at the end of the poem. (In an earlier version of the poem, the lady’s resting place was less metaphorical and more grim: Dickinson said she lay “in spiceless Sepulchre.”)

Rosemary is a herb deeply rooted in history and tradition as a symbol of remembrance. Remembrance is how we keep our lost loved ones alive at least a little longer, just as the attar of the rose “make summer” after summer has gone.

Life in the mid-19th century was hard. Death was always nearby for Dickinson, and she engaged in a lifelong exploration of its presence and meaning both in her own life and universally, both spiritually and physically. What is the “essential oil” of a life lived in the shadow of Death? How hard is it to extract for use in our betterment? Or how hard for remembrance to be wrung from our short, tumultuous time on earth?

The General Rose decays, Dickinson tells us, “But this — in Lady’s Drawer / Make Summer…” What is “this” in the Lady’s Drawer? Surely it is a sachet, prolonging the essential life of the roses that have yielded the oils from their petals, wrung painfully by screws. The rose, now decayed, lives on in its fragrance, it “make[s] summer” after summer has passed, when summer is a memory and “the Lady lie in ceaseless Rosemary.”

But why did Dickinson wish to subject delicate rose petals to the metal violence of “Screws”? Couldn’t the poet’s dramatic point have been achieved with botanical fragrances released by summery steam through the process of distillation? Wouldn’t the distilled attar in Lady’s Drawer still “Make Summer”? (I pause to note the wonderful “slant rhyme” of “Rose” and “Screws,” slanted by both sound and substance.)

No, essential oil must be realized through a process more anguishing than the gentler process of steam distillation. We learn from our pain, we are deepened by grief, and our own essential oil is wrung from the experience of living. It is the gift of screws.

This is the pearl inside the uncracked walnut."

Thanks, Ira. 

         -/)dam Wade I)eGraff

Note: The ending of this poem has an odd cadence. It just sounds wrong ending with the dactylic "ROSEmary" as it does. It makes me wonder if Rosemary was once pronounced more like "Rose Marie." Or maybe Dickinson wanted the sound to die off, rather impotently, like it does, as if the the lady dying in the poem simply fades out. Dickinson was extremely exact with her metrical emphasis, so something like this makes you wonder.

We miss Her, not because We see—

We miss Her, not because We see—
The Absence of an Eye—
Except its Mind accompany
Abridge Society

As slightly as the Routes of Stars—
Ourselves—asleep below—
We know that their superior Eyes
Include Us—as they go—

 

           -Fr771, J993, fascicle 34, 1863

This poem is similar to Fr769, in that it "sees" seeing. In that poem the poet envisions the last vision. In this one, going a step further, beyond death, the poet sees the absence of being seen:

We miss Her, not because We see—
The Absence of an Eye—

But its not the absence of the the eye we miss, but the mind behind that eye, because the loss of Her mind is a loss to our society: 

 

Except its Mind accompany
Abridge Society

It’s not Her physical self (her Eye) that we'll miss so much as the playful liveliness of the response of Her mind, says the poet. 

Following from the idea that “the absence of Her mind abridges (lessens) society" we are given a comparison:

“As slightly as the Routes of Stars—” 

An alternative line Dickinson leaves us in the fascicle is “As scarcely as the Flights of Stars." I like the alternative because it gives us the sense of a rare shooting star lessening society by flying away, but the line Dickinson went with, "as slightly as the routes of stars" gives us more of a sense of a barely perceptible, but momentous movement. It's a whole different poem really, depending on which line you use. In this version, the "mind accompany" has now gone above, the loss of which is affecting the poet, and it is like the stars' slow and steady movement onward. But never fear, for those eyes, when we close ours, will take us with them:

Ourselves—asleep below—
We know that their superior Eyes
Include Us—as they go—

The poet is “asleep” below, her eyes, ironically, closed. The eye of the beloved has ascended, and can no longer be seen, and moreover, the mind behind that eye, sadly, will no longer affect society. But in the poet’s dreams, the mind of the dearly departed is still affecting her like the superior stars do. The eye of the beloved has become superior like the eyes of the stars. Both the stars, and the lover's mind that has joined them, take the sleeper “as they go.”

The stars, and the eyes of our lost loved ones, are enroute. They are superior now to our own eyes and are taking us with them, if we will but follow.

       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

star trails

 

Strong Draughts of Their Refreshing Minds

Strong Draughts of Their Refreshing Minds
To drink—enables Mine
Through Desert or the Wilderness
As bore it Sealed Wine—

To go elastic—Or as One
The Camel's trait—attained—
How powerful the Stimulus
Of an Hermetic Mind—

      Fr770, J711, fascicle 34, 1863

The opening line of this poem reminds me of lines from Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale." 

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

Maybe Keats’ own “Refreshing Mind” was one of those that Dickinson was thinking of when she wrote this poem, along with Elizabeth Barrett Browning, George Eliot and Shakespeare, to name a few of her favorites.

“Sealed Wine” I take to be a book, or perhaps, even, a poem. The form of a poem seals in its contents, just as a hard cover seals in the pages of a book.

“Through Desert or the Wilderness” is a compact phrase that is worth stopping and thinking about. Books by great authors help get us through the dry times of the proverbial desert. How? Because their Beauty quenches us. Great books also help us when we are confused and lost in The Wilderness. How? Because their Truth helps guide us. Here again I think of Keats,

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

The second stanza of this strange poem gives us more to chew on:

To go elastic—Or as One
The Camel's trait—attained—
How powerful the Stimulus
Of an Hermetic Mind—

The choice presented to us in miniature in that 5th line of the poem, between “To go elastic —Or as One,” is an instructive one. Great literature, like wine, gives us elasticity. It stretches you. In other words, it allows you to travel away from yourself, but also, simultaneously, makes you “One,” brings you into a sense of unison with the author, and, ultimately with the universe. 

When you read a great poem, you often have to really stretch. But, paradoxically, you also come closer to harmonic convergence with life. Literature, like wine, has a contranymic effect. You cleave apart at the same time that you cleave to. 

In this poem Dickinson mixes her metaphors to strange effect. A great book is like sealed wine, which then is carried through a desert by a camel. Here we can hardly help but imagine a camel which is able to carry wine in its hump instead of water. That seems like a stretch, a very elastic way to describe a great book, but it gets us closer to a kind of truth than before we took the journey. This poem, hermetically sealed, describes itself. 

Like any of Dickinson’s many paeans to other authors, this one can be turned back in on itself. “How powerful the Stimulus/ Of an Hermetic Mind—”  It's an uncanny effect. It’s as if Dickinson is describing herself to us in the third person. Hers was certainly a "stimulating" and “hermetic” mind. The word hermetic has a kind of double meaning. It means both “sealed tight” and “reclusive.” You get the sense in this poem that the poem itself, the “sealed wine,” represents the hermetic mind of the author.

Inside a hermetic mind is a poem about a book being like sealed wine in the hump of a camel, and inside of that book there is a poem, by a hermetic mind, about a book being like sealed wine in the hump of a camel, and so on, all the way down, and all the way up too, if we dare follow suit.    

I'm starting to feel a little tipsy, myself.

      -  /)dam Wade l)eGraff

Notes:

1. I learned something while looking up the history of the word "Hermetic." Hermetic: of or relating to the mystical and alchemical writings or teachings arising in the first three centuries a.d. and attributed to Hermes Trismegistus. It means relating to or characterized by subjects that are mysterious and difficult to understand. A second meaning of the word though, airtight, comes from the belief that Hermes Trismegistus invented a magic seal to keep vessels airtight. So, if I'm getting this right, this Hermes guy invented a seal to keep vessels airtight, which just so happens to relate to the the first definition of Hermetic, mysterious knowledge, which characterizes his teaching? Hmm. By the way, the word Hermetic is not related to the word hermit, as I would have guessed. 

2. This poem pairs well with the first poem from this fascicle, Fr756, which is about the vital connection between the poet and a beloved author who has died. 

3. Drunkenness as a metaphor pops up to great effect often in Dickinson, the most famous example being F207, "I taste a liquor never brewed."