With Gold and Silver Pain
To prove the presence of the Ore
In Particles — 'tis when
A Value struggle — it exist —
Perhaps this short poem screams “Pain” on a level deeper than any exegesis could provide. One on level, it is Dickinson at her most formal, as it scans perfectly to the tune of “Amazing Grace,” yet the “off rhymes” (pain and when/ proclaim and him), and the enjambed sentence, or at least clause, between stanzas, and the use of dashes, in the 5th an 6th line especially:
In Particles — 'tis when
A Value struggle — it exist —
A Power — will proclaim
exhibit a grammatical stumbling like marbles on the floor, largely due to the phrase “it exist.” Although the “argument of the poem,” suggests the necessary value of decoration (which reminds me of a John Ashbery line about “metal that will rust if not painted”), the decoration does not cover or hide the pain, but rather reveals (and perhaps amplifies) it. Is the pain in a value struggle with the power? Or may the pain be said to proclaim the power? Adam DeGraff argues that ‘ the silver and gold pain might be alchemically transmuted into poetry, ‘proving’ the ore.” He reminds me that “ore doesn't rust. Ore is strength against chaoses. (or rather it already IS rust. Most ore is already iron oxide, meaning it's already rusted in its natural state, just in solid rock form.)”
If this poem sings the necessity of diversification, does the ore become “the one.” Certainly, this poem, with its artful alternations of singular and plurals is concerned with the relationship between the many and the one. Nonetheless, although there is a celebration of this power, the poem seems to be more interested in evoking the annihilation that piles “whole chaoses,” which get the last words, and spell check reminds me that chaos is not supposed to be spoken in the plural.
Given that the poem mentions gold and silver, as well as a value struggle, it is perhaps tempting to consider a mercantile dimension to this poem, of how “pain” may have a currency, a power, in lyric effusions, and I am curious what others have to say about that.
-Chris Stroffolino
A Power — will proclaim
Although Annihilation pile
Whole Chaoses on Him —
Although Annihilation pile
Whole Chaoses on Him —
-Fr864, J806, Fascicle 48, 1864
For this poem we reached out to the great poet and musician Chris Stroffolino. Chris has written about Dickinson beautifully elsewhere so I asked him to write for Prowling Bee and he kindly said yes. (Fun fact, Chris also played keyboard and trumpet on one of the greatest albums of the 90s, American Water, by The Silver Jews, who I just so happened to reference in the post for Fr 860 a couple of weeks ago.)
For this poem we reached out to the great poet and musician Chris Stroffolino. Chris has written about Dickinson beautifully elsewhere so I asked him to write for Prowling Bee and he kindly said yes. (Fun fact, Chris also played keyboard and trumpet on one of the greatest albums of the 90s, American Water, by The Silver Jews, who I just so happened to reference in the post for Fr 860 a couple of weeks ago.)
Perhaps this short poem screams “Pain” on a level deeper than any exegesis could provide. One on level, it is Dickinson at her most formal, as it scans perfectly to the tune of “Amazing Grace,” yet the “off rhymes” (pain and when/ proclaim and him), and the enjambed sentence, or at least clause, between stanzas, and the use of dashes, in the 5th an 6th line especially:
In Particles — 'tis when
A Value struggle — it exist —
A Power — will proclaim
exhibit a grammatical stumbling like marbles on the floor, largely due to the phrase “it exist.” Although the “argument of the poem,” suggests the necessary value of decoration (which reminds me of a John Ashbery line about “metal that will rust if not painted”), the decoration does not cover or hide the pain, but rather reveals (and perhaps amplifies) it. Is the pain in a value struggle with the power? Or may the pain be said to proclaim the power? Adam DeGraff argues that ‘ the silver and gold pain might be alchemically transmuted into poetry, ‘proving’ the ore.” He reminds me that “ore doesn't rust. Ore is strength against chaoses. (or rather it already IS rust. Most ore is already iron oxide, meaning it's already rusted in its natural state, just in solid rock form.)”
If this poem sings the necessity of diversification, does the ore become “the one.” Certainly, this poem, with its artful alternations of singular and plurals is concerned with the relationship between the many and the one. Nonetheless, although there is a celebration of this power, the poem seems to be more interested in evoking the annihilation that piles “whole chaoses,” which get the last words, and spell check reminds me that chaos is not supposed to be spoken in the plural.
Given that the poem mentions gold and silver, as well as a value struggle, it is perhaps tempting to consider a mercantile dimension to this poem, of how “pain” may have a currency, a power, in lyric effusions, and I am curious what others have to say about that.
-Chris Stroffolino
Whole chaoses. An oxymoron worth chewing on.
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