The Least—can lift a Ton
Assisted by its stimulus—
Who Misery—sustain—
No Sinew can afford—
The Cargo of Themselves—
Too infinite for Consciousness'
Slow capabilities.
-Fr889, J787, Fascicle 39, 1864
This is the last poem of the 40 fascicles that Emily Dickinson left behind.* We (mostly Susan) have commented on every one of the 800 plus poems in these 40 fascicles, a feat that has taken 15 years. It’s quite an accomplishment I think, and yet the blog is still only half way through the 1775 poems of the oeuvre. We have another 900 non-fascicle poems to go. Diving this deep into the poems really makes clear just how prolific, and awesome, Emily Dickinson was, and still is.
It's worth noting that there hasn't been a poem yet that we couldn't find plenty to write about. Sometimes I still don't get it, but trust her so much as a source of poetry that I know it's my problem, not hers.
This final poem in the fascicle starts off with a seemingly optimistic claim. The least bit of happiness can lift a ton. A little goes a long way. We see this idea played out in Dickinson’s poems often. In the poem before this one, Fr888, for instance, we get this: “Content of fading/ Is enough for me —/ Her least attention raise on me —”
Buckle down. With steel-eyed resolve and the diligent work of her poetry, Dickinson was able, through her misery, to sustain herself. The poems, seen in this slant light, are all the more remarkable for existing at all. Their presence, and the force of their beauty, are a living proof that all is not lost. Dickinson doesn't just sustain herself through a Herculean battle against depression, but, by doing so, in an act of service, helps sustain us. In Fr887 Dickinson writes,
Severer Service of myself
I—hastened to demand
To fill the awful Vacuum
Your life had left behind—
So many gems.
Part of the wonderful advantage of the fascicles is being able to watch the development from poem to poem as Dickinson laid them out in books she sewed together herself. For instance, in this poem we have the word “capability,” which is, since we have just recently read it, reminiscent of the word “capacity” in the poem previous to this one, Fr888. She's thinking about the capacity and capability of consciousness itself. (No cap, as the kids say.) You can watch the ideas develop when you read the fascicles, see words get picked up and looked at from all sides.
This poem is the end of a fascicle that has been wrestling with selfhood in the midst of tragic loss. The conclusion appears bleak. The last few poems have the poet questioning Being itself. Fr887 sums it up: “to die/ Is Nature's only Pharmacy/ For Being's Malady—”
Part of the wonderful advantage of the fascicles is being able to watch the development from poem to poem as Dickinson laid them out in books she sewed together herself. For instance, in this poem we have the word “capability,” which is, since we have just recently read it, reminiscent of the word “capacity” in the poem previous to this one, Fr888. She's thinking about the capacity and capability of consciousness itself. (No cap, as the kids say.) You can watch the ideas develop when you read the fascicles, see words get picked up and looked at from all sides.
This poem is the end of a fascicle that has been wrestling with selfhood in the midst of tragic loss. The conclusion appears bleak. The last few poems have the poet questioning Being itself. Fr887 sums it up: “to die/ Is Nature's only Pharmacy/ For Being's Malady—”
This final poem in the fascicle starts off with a seemingly optimistic claim. The least bit of happiness can lift a ton. A little goes a long way. We see this idea played out in Dickinson’s poems often. In the poem before this one, Fr888, for instance, we get this: “Content of fading/ Is enough for me —/ Her least attention raise on me —”
The first stanza of this final poem is, like the lover's attention, short lived:
Such is the Force of Happiness—
The Least—can lift a Ton
Assisted by its stimulus—
The Least—can lift a Ton
Assisted by its stimulus—
Another reading of this poem, by the poet Alex Cory, is that with the stimulus of happiness the least of us can lift a ton. This reading gets at "As you do unto the least of these, you do unto me" idea. In other words, the happiness you spread to the least will lift them up a ton.
Though that's a lot of happiness, a ton is still finite. There was a finite amount of happiness, even if it was a whole ton. But the other side of the equation, in the more heavily-weighted second stanza, is the "Misery" of self alone. The weight of this Misery feels... infinite.
The Cargo of Themselves—
(is) Too infinite for Consciousness'
Slow capabilities.
(is) Too infinite for Consciousness'
Slow capabilities.
The misery felt in the weight of the “cargo” being carried by the self feels infinite. There's an overwhelming feeling of futility. Consciousness is bottomless, and, without love, endlessly painful.
But there is a catch of sorts. Dickinson writes,
Who Misery—sustain—
No Sinew can afford—
First of all, note that it doesn’t say “who sustains misery.” It’s “who Misery sustain.” There is something about misery that sustains poetry. We saw this idea play out in Fr887: "When she (Nature) had put away Her Work/ My own had just begun—"
Likewise in Fr706 Dickinson writes of the “white sustenance Despair.” Misery and despair can help sustain an artist, but, ironically, it’s not sustainable. “Consciousness’ slow capability” can’t handle it. "No sinew can afford" to take on all that weight. What's a girl to do?
But there is a catch of sorts. Dickinson writes,
Who Misery—sustain—
No Sinew can afford—
First of all, note that it doesn’t say “who sustains misery.” It’s “who Misery sustain.” There is something about misery that sustains poetry. We saw this idea play out in Fr887: "When she (Nature) had put away Her Work/ My own had just begun—"
Likewise in Fr706 Dickinson writes of the “white sustenance Despair.” Misery and despair can help sustain an artist, but, ironically, it’s not sustainable. “Consciousness’ slow capability” can’t handle it. "No sinew can afford" to take on all that weight. What's a girl to do?
Buckle down. With steel-eyed resolve and the diligent work of her poetry, Dickinson was able, through her misery, to sustain herself. The poems, seen in this slant light, are all the more remarkable for existing at all. Their presence, and the force of their beauty, are a living proof that all is not lost. Dickinson doesn't just sustain herself through a Herculean battle against depression, but, by doing so, in an act of service, helps sustain us. In Fr887 Dickinson writes,
Severer Service of myself
I—hastened to demand
To fill the awful Vacuum
Your life had left behind—
-/)dam Wade l)eGraff
*Mabel Loomis Todd ordered these fascicles, and this fascicle, according to her system, is number 39. But, according to Franklin’s ordering this one would be the 40th. The problem is Franklin didn't reorder the fascicles, just the poems. So we have two different tracking systems. According to Franklin though, this is the last poem in the last fascicle, and, therefore, this poem the final one preserved in this way. It’s all guess work.)
*Mabel Loomis Todd ordered these fascicles, and this fascicle, according to her system, is number 39. But, according to Franklin’s ordering this one would be the 40th. The problem is Franklin didn't reorder the fascicles, just the poems. So we have two different tracking systems. According to Franklin though, this is the last poem in the last fascicle, and, therefore, this poem the final one preserved in this way. It’s all guess work.)
i’m feeling that phrase, The Cargo of Themselves … as it exists outside consciousness in this poem, which can’t catch up. It’s okay not to understand everything we carry just as ourselves … poetry is a permission beyond slower comprehensions that lets us know poets like ED, lost to time, but what we know of our own cargo shows us possibilities, of which there can be more and more. Thanks for continuing this reading journey.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing it. I've got my my cargo pants rolled up.
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