tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4029797379711350813.post7467515576510490420..comments2024-03-28T18:48:28.471-07:00Comments on the prowling Bee: I tend my flowers for thee—Susan Kornfeldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05384011972647144453noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4029797379711350813.post-59258571220554774552023-07-01T15:23:45.729-07:002023-07-01T15:23:45.729-07:00Bright Absentee!
(in San Francisco,)
Thy Daisy—Dr...Bright Absentee! <br />(in San Francisco,)<br />Thy Daisy—Draped for thee! <br />(waits for you in Amherst.)<br />∙ ∙ ∙ ∙(F366, About autumn 1862)<br /><br />In 1862 ED was sure she would never see Wadsworth again in this world, and she seesawed, how many times, between believing and doubting she would meet him in Heaven. She was wrong about this life; he showed up unannounced at her front door in 1880, as she described to Charles Clark in L1040, postmarked April 15, 1886, exactly one month before her death:<br /><br />"Thank you, Dear friend –<br /><br />I am better. The velocity of the ill, however, is like that of the snail.<br />∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙<br />With the exception of my Sister who never saw Mr Wadsworth, your Name alone remains.<br /><br />"Going Home," was he not an Aborigine of the sky? "Where did you come from," I said, for he spoke like an Apparition.<br /><br />"I stepped from my Pulpit to the Train" was [his] simple reply, and when I asked "how long," "Twenty Years" said he with inscrutable roguery - but the loved Voice has ceased [Wadsworth died April 1, 1882], and to someone who heard him "Going Home," it was sweet to speak. <br />∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙<br />E. Dickinson<br />Larry Bhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02810899482852120751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4029797379711350813.post-56318842772346873912023-07-01T14:48:00.795-07:002023-07-01T14:48:00.795-07:00With this poem, ED gets my sap flowing better than...With this poem, ED gets my sap flowing better than any stripper ever could. She's exquisite.Larry Bhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02810899482852120751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4029797379711350813.post-84499756522676082792023-07-01T14:43:30.801-07:002023-07-01T14:43:30.801-07:00What a lovely pun on posey, d scribe, worth the pr...What a lovely pun on posey, d scribe, worth the price of admission.Larry Bhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02810899482852120751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4029797379711350813.post-29500011438327847362023-07-01T14:28:50.030-07:002023-07-01T14:28:50.030-07:00No wonder you puzzled, until late in her poetry ca...No wonder you puzzled, until late in her poetry career, ED spelled "upon" O-P-O-N. Don't ask why, we gotta take her for better or for worse. What a bargain.Larry Bhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02810899482852120751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4029797379711350813.post-67300158747640865462023-04-25T07:55:44.564-07:002023-04-25T07:55:44.564-07:00This is D Scribe (on school computer). I went back...This is D Scribe (on school computer). I went back to this one because I recorded it as a song and it showed up on my personal playlist. It hit me emotionally this time. I looked up the original and it is hard to tell if it is "Upon" a garden floor or "Open" a garden floor. <br /><br /> https://journeys.dartmouth.edu/whiteheat/i-tend-my-flowers-for-thee-f-367-j-339-2/Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4029797379711350813.post-11746984401403750612023-03-28T14:57:39.257-07:002023-03-28T14:57:39.257-07:00Lovely and such insightful commentary -- thank you...Lovely and such insightful commentary -- thank you! After a re-read of this flowering poem I find my explication wanting. Yes, the Sower is lord, lover, dreamer. The garden achingly ripe, the gardener an unfurled flower.<br /> The globe roses image, exquisite.Susan Kornfeldhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05384011972647144453noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4029797379711350813.post-66231180380897918392023-03-27T12:30:01.780-07:002023-03-27T12:30:01.780-07:00Every day I dip my hand into the seemingly endless...Every day I dip my hand into the seemingly endless treasures of Emily Dickinsons poems to see what comes up. Sometimes it is a flower such as this, a many petaled poem, a veritable flowering of flower. Poesy. This one I just wanted to read over and over, until even the hidden hyacinth was revealed to me. The Sower is the Lord is the Lover is God is the Reader him/herself, all absent, while the gardener waits. I love the undercurrent of violence. Those verbs! Rip, Split, tip, pick, break. They speak of desire and its lack of fulfillment all at once. I also love the surreal touches, like the cactus splitting its beard to show its throat!. (It reminds me of the garden in the story "Amor" by Clarice Lispector, the writer who comes closest in prose, perhaps, to what Dickinson does with poetry.) On my last reading I read the flowers in the garden as Emily's poems themselves, awaiting the "prowling bee" to pollinate them. If her poems aren't "globe roses breaking their satin flakes against the garden floor" I don't know what they are. And how wonderful that the gardener herself, a flower herself, a daisy, has been modestly dressed in a gray calyx, as if the flower were dying, or already dead. Hurry back, she calls to her lover. "As one called back"d scribehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08242682202760522439noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4029797379711350813.post-54487317617388035292019-05-22T20:46:44.718-07:002019-05-22T20:46:44.718-07:00I always loved this poem for the descriptions. But...I always loved this poem for the descriptions. But the sexual metaphors is so interesting and adds so much meaning. Thank you for this. :)Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05882974763478721408noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4029797379711350813.post-33153547157522643982015-02-03T08:36:04.641-08:002015-02-03T08:36:04.641-08:00Ah, a Song of Solomon poem. Thanks.Ah, a Song of Solomon poem. Thanks.Susan Kornfeldhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05384011972647144453noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4029797379711350813.post-19592070879628669692015-02-03T04:45:44.973-08:002015-02-03T04:45:44.973-08:00This reminds me of a nun's secret passion for ...This reminds me of a nun's secret passion for her beloved, Jesus. The inner nectar hidden inside the startched robes, in the Gray, modestly.<br /><br />And that last image of the Daisy Draped reminds me of a coffin, and how the poet pines over her Bright Absentee.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com