Growth of Man—like Growth of Nature—

Growth of Man—like Growth of Nature—
Gravitates within—
Atmosphere, and Sun endorse it—
But it stir—alone—

Each—its difficult Ideal
Must achieve—Itself
Through the solitary prowess
Of a Silent Life—

Effort—is the sole condition—
Patience of Itself—
Patience of opposing forces—
And intact Belief—

Looking on—is the Department
Of its Audience—
But Transaction—is assisted
By no Countenance—



      -Fr790, J750, Fascicle 37, 1863

This poem is a guide to living your best life.

Growth of Man—like Growth of Nature—
Gravitates within—

For starters, we are reminded that we take our cues from nature. If you look at nature, you see that there is something innate within living beings from which growth takes place. What does this mean? Just like flowers, we have the blueprint for growth, but we must go within to find it. We will find out what that entails as the poem proceeds.

“Gravitates” is a powerful verb here. Growth stems from our own center of gravity.

Atmosphere, and Sun endorse it—
But it stir—alone—

I take the Sun here to mean, in the context of this poem, something like the approval and happiness of those around us, and the Atmosphere, the pleasantness of our surroundings. Both of these "endorse" our growth, but there must be something deeper we can draw on than set and setting, which, after all, can be mercurial.

“Endorse” is an intriguing word. It’s as if the potential within us is a political candidate, which may be endorsed by sun and atmosphere, but must decide to run for office on its own.

There is also the word “stir,” which is...stirring. We must “stir” —alone—

Apropos, "alone" is set off by itself between two dashes. 

Each—its difficult Ideal
Must achieve—Itself—

These lines present a challenge to us. Each of us have a singular ideal state of becoming, of blooming, but to achieve it, we must muster the wherewithal to get there by ourselves. Can we? Yes, we can. But the implied question is: will we? These lines lead us to ask ourselves this question, difficult to ask because it is asking for something difficult.

Through the solitary prowess
Of a Silent Life—

To achieve this ideal state takes not only solitude, but prowess within this solitude, and not just Silence, but a lifetime of silence. All of our skill, harnessed in silent solitude, not to mention all of our Life, is necessary to get there.

It gives us pause when we realize that Dickinson’s famous reclusivity was in service to this. And further, that within her own solitary prowess, what she was able to harness was, in part, this very set of compact instructions, lyrically composed to last. The fruit of her labors are to help others achieve the fruit of theirs, if they only will. 

Effort—is the sole condition—

Effort is the sole condition. That’s it!  It just takes effort. What kind of effort?

Patience of Itself—

Patience. One pertinent question is, what does the "it" in this poem refer to? It's as if the self, or the engine of the self's growth, were a thing. (It makes me wonder; if Dickinson were a young person in 2025, what pronoun would she take? Would she choose... "it?") Regardless, whatever "it" is must be patient of the process of becoming. I think Dickinson is basically saying here that one must be very patient with one's self. It's a process. It takes time. Mistakes will be made. Effort is what matters. 

Patience of opposing forces—

Not only must one be patient of one's self, but also patient with the forces in opposition to one's self too, all those manifold things that get in the way of becoming our true selves.

And intact Belief—

And we must keep our belief in ourselves, in our ideal potential, intact, unharmed by outside influences. We must protect it from opposing forces. 

Looking on—is the Department
Of its Audience—

I think this is saying that watching the process (the "it") is for others to do, which really just means that it is not for us to do. How do you self-correct without watching yourself? There's a seeming paradox here, but if you are truly blooming, you aren't correcting yourself. It's like that line about dancing like no one is watching you. Once you are inside the music you no longer are conscious of how you look to others. So the self-judgment is the mistake that must be corrected. This is what we are making an effort to transcend. It's a catch 22. One must try to not try. There is no try, there is only do.  

But Transaction—is assisted
By no Countenance—

Countenance, according to the Dickinson lexicon:

Old French, cuntenance, manner of holding oneself, bearing, behavior, aspect. 

1. Other; additional person; person exterior to oneself.

2. Face; visage; facial expression; [fig.] appearance; bearing; demeanor; personality.
3. Glory; radiance; sunbeams; solar illumination; refulgent light; intense shining of the sun.

All of these meanings are possibly at play in this poem, but since we have just had the idea of an audience looking, we may say that what is being said here is that the countenance of another, the opinion of another, will not help us transact into full blossom. This we must do ourselves. 

Transaction is defined by the Dickinson lexicon as: "Effort; labor; exertion." So again, it comes down to effort and even though we may be endorsed by the refulgent light of others, they can't assist us where it truly matters, a decision that must be rooted in belief that must remain intact beyond the vagaries of opinion. 

Here we consider Dickinson's poetry. A poem that proceeds this one in the fascicle, Fr788, "Publication is the auction of the mind of man," is thinking along a similar line. We are getting more and more insight in fascicle 37 as to why these poems, although clearly written for the edification of others, refused to be influenced by them. 

File this one under Emily Dickinson poems to be inspired by. 

       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Solitude by Thomas Harrison, 1889

P.S. That line "dance like no one is watching you" always reminds me of Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams, one of my all time favorite poems.

All but Death, can be Adjusted —

All but Death, can be Adjusted —
Dynasties repaired —
Systems — settled in their Sockets —
Citadels — dissolved —

Wastes of Lives — resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs —
Death — unto itself — Exception —
Is exempt from Change —


       -F789, J749, Fascicle 37, 1863 

Change while you can, because you can’t change death. That’s the blunt point of this poem. All but Death, can be Adjusted —

It’s also a strangely hopeful poem though. If you aren’t dead, you still have time. You can still “adjust.” The poem begins and ends with the inevitability of death, but in the living center of this poem Dickinson teases out just what it is that may still be changed.

Let’s look at these one at a time.

Dynasties repaired —

Death may not be reparable, but, on the other hand, entire dynasties can be repaired. At first glance that’s comforting. But wait a minute, is that really what we want? Do we really want to repair Dynasties? A Dynasty is a family or group that has held power a long time. Maybe it's time for a change? So, this particular change back might be a little suspect.

How about that next one,

Systems settled in their sockets —

First of all, look how well those words fit, trochaically, into the “system” of that line? It fits like a ball in a socket. And the phrase, in turn, fits into the well-oiled socket of the hymn meter of this poem. 

This, we should note is the result of a change from chaos to order. The Dynasties may be in need of repair, but this line is about the process of repair itself. To bring a Dynasty back into order, you better get your systems settled in their sockets.

Finally, this line reminds me of an Emily Dickinson poem that was brought to my attention by the terrific bestselling novel by Gabrielle Zevin, “Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow.” This poem is mentioned over and over again in the book as the main character meditates on it:

“That Love is all there is,
Is all we know of Love;
It is enough, the freight should be
Proportioned to the groove.”

In the socket, in the groove, we are talking about all we know of Love here.

The third process up for consideration here is:

Citadels — dissolved —

A citadel is a city’s fortress. Maybe you could argue that it is good to protect cities (and people) from being invaded, but you might also say that a dissolving citadel would be a very welcome thing, since it would mean there are no more threats. 

So are these desired changes or not? Do Dynasties need repair? Can a system be too in the socket? Does a city need protection?

But, taken on a more inspiring and personal level, you may say that the dynasty (your own reign of power) may be repaired, that your systems (your life) may be gotten back into their sockets, and that you may, it is hoped, learn to let down the guard of your citadel.

The second stanza gives us one more lovely example,

Wastes of Lives — resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs —

The winter wasteland of your life may be resown with the colors of spring.

If words fit into the system of lines, and the lines fit into the meter of the poem, then this poem fits into the system of the fascicle, the little book into which has been “sown” together (literally) by the author. You can see this idea operating here with the “resown with Colors by Succeeding Springs” because in this same fascicle, a couple poems back, there is one about sewing with the colors of autumn. These lines are a call back to that poem, and part of the system of the fascicle.

I like the double meaning of the word “Succeeding” before "Springs." Succeed can mean coming after, but it can also mean —Success!

Death — unto itself — Exception —
Is exempt from Change —

The poem ends where it begins, with the inevitability of death. But between, there are succeeding springs, systems in place, citadels dissolved and dynasties repaired. Do what you’ve got to do, the poem warns. Death’s a-coming.

One more observation here. When I saw the line about systems settled in their sockets I looked, instinctively, to see if Emily did something to the form of this poem to unsettle the system. I first looked at the rhythm and noticed it was nicely settled into its system, but then I looked at the rhyme scheme and noticed that there really isn't one. System subtly disrupted?

-/)dam Wade l)eGraff

My daughter Sofia once wrote a poem that has the same double sense 

of the word “succeed" that Dickinson uses in this poem.

"I succeed the seed of me in the breeze.” - Sofia DeGraff

Publication – is the Auction

Publication – is the Auction
Of the Mind of Man –
Poverty – be justifying
For so foul a thing

Possibly – but We – would rather
From Our Garret go
White – unto the White Creator –
Than invest – Our Snow –

Thought belong to Him who gave it –
Then – to Him Who bear
It's Corporeal illustration – sell
The Royal Air –

In the Parcel – Be the Merchant
Of the Heavenly Grace –
But reduce no Human Spirit
To Disgrace of Price –

        -F788, J709, fascicle 37, 1863

It's fascinating to consider Emily Dickinson's relationship with publishing. Has there ever been a writer more widely read who all but refused to publish their own work? How did she pull this off?

This poem gets underneath the problem of making money off, or even taking credit for, work that is, inherently, concerning love. Poetry is, perhaps, by its nature, antithetical to remuneration.

Publication – is the Auction
Of the Mind of Man –
Poverty – be justifying
For so foul a thing

Possibly –

How can writers publish and sell the thoughts from the Mind of Man? (Man is wonderfully general here, as if we are speaking of the mind of all men and women.) The poet says that the only thing that would justify this, "Possibly," is poverty. This is an important qualification, especially coming from Dickinson, who could afford not to think about her financial situation, as she lived in her family home supported by her family's wealth. I don't believe she ever earned money for anything, let alone poetry. On one hand you can say that this is living an out-of-touch and privileged life. On the other hand this enables the poet to keep her intentions pure. It keeps her from having to "sell-out." You could say, then, that she used her privilege to her (and our) best advantage.

If you are (financially) impoverished, then perhaps you can justify so foul a thing as publishing for money, but the ambiguous syntax here seems to imply that if you do consider such a thing, you may be (morally) impoverished. 

but We – would rather
From Our Garret go
White – unto the White Creator –
Than invest – Our Snow –

Rather than publish...

We – would rather/ From Our Garret go

If you stop at the end of the line, it seems to say that the poet would rather go into battle than to publish. She’s fiercely coming out of her well-fortified Garret to fight. 

But if you enjamb the next line, her intention is more severe than just going to war. 

From Our Garret go/ 

White – unto the White Creator –"

Maybe poverty is worth it, but Emily says she would rather die fighting than sell her poetry. That's such a strong statement. She would rather die, go “white,” that is, pale, from death, and go back "unto the white creator."

What a intriguing way to state the act of dying, to "go white unto a white creator.” There is the sense of going pale here, but also a sense of white as being pure. At this point in her life Dickinson did, indeed, dress in white, so these lines have an extra layer of meaning. There is also the sense in white of the page itself, minus the words.

By bringing Snow into the equation though, Dickinson is adding another quality to white: coldness.

Snow is an icy metaphor here (short-hand, I think, for pain) but it's also real snow too that is being invoked, just like the Royal air in the next stanza is both metaphor and real. And just as real and pure and cold as the snow and air are the words in this poem.

These words, like the snow and Royal air, are being given to the reader here, but the credit, the poet says, should go to the one from which the thought originally comes. If the poetry, like the snow, doesn’t belong to the owner of the thoughts, then to whom does it belong?

Thought belong to Him who gave it –
Then – to Him Who bear
It's Corporeal illustration – sell
The Royal Air –

The corporeal illustration, that is what we are. We are the illustration of the Creator. And to this corporeal body who shall dare sell the non-corporeal Royal Air?  Royal Air is a nice pun on Royal heir (Christ?) and also elicits the Holy Spirit. (It would make a terrific title for a book, "Royal Air.") To sell one's poetry is tantamount to trying to sell the Holy Spirit.

In the Parcel – Be the Merchant
Of the Heavenly Grace –
But reduce no Human Spirit
To Disgrace of Price –

(A parcel full of Royal Air. It reminds me of Box of Rain, that terrific Grateful Dead song.)

Go ahead and be the merchant, get the Heavenly Grace out to the people, but don’t disgrace the human spirit by putting a price on it. 

It pretty amazing to realize that Dickinson walked her talk here. She never “sold” her poetry for money. Think about that. All that work done for not a dime. But still, miraculously, we have all of it.  She bequeathed it to us in sewn fascicles. You can find all of Emily’s poetry now somewhere online, free.  This poem suggests that this is as it should be.

Let me reiterate this remarkable fact. Dickinson managed to somehow get her work out into the world, to millions of people for perpetuity, without sullying the poetry with filthy lucre, without any capitulation to a bottom line, without any reduction of the "Human Spirit."

As I write this I’m listening to a recording of my old roommate Ed Berrigan's band I Feel Tractor that he sent me today. Eddie is singing, “Where’s my money!” over and over. It seems like the perfect musical score to writing about this poem. 

Like Emily, Eddie is a merchant of grace, and doesn't reduce the human spirit to disgrace of price. It’s the poet’s way. 

Likewise, this blog isn't monetized either. It's just less complicated that way.

 

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Everything is Free Now, by Gillian Welch, as performed by Sylvan Esso:

Bloom opon the Mountain—stated—

Bloom opon the Mountain—stated—
Blameless of a Name—
Efflorescence of a Sunset—
Reproduced—the same—

Seed, had I, my Purple Sowing
Should endow the Day—
Not a Tropic of a Twilight—
Show itself away—

Who for tilling—to the Mountain
Come, and disappear—
Whose be Her Renown, or fading,
Witness, is not here—

While I state—the Solemn Petals,
Far as North—and East,
Far as South and West—expanding—
Culminate—in Rest—

And the Mountain to the Evening
Fit His Countenance—
Indicating, by no Muscle—
The Experience—


       -F787, J667, Fascicle 37, 1863


In this gorgeous sunset poem Emily is comparing her own “stating” to that of nature’s. In the first line a blooming sunset is “stated” upon a mountain, and then in the first line of the fourth stanza we see that this is happening even while the poet herself is stating. “While I state,” she states. That’s the main idea here, and for the rest of this poem Emily will flesh out this theme in the sunset-tinged hues of her language.

Let’s take it stanza by stanza:

Bloom opon the Mountain—stated—
Blameless of a Name
Efflorescence of a Sunset—
Reproduced—the same—

The poem begins with the novel idea of a sunset blooming like a flower on the side of a mountain. Thank you, Emily. I don’t think I have ever thought of a Sunset as a flower blooming before, and certainly not on the side of a mountain. How majestic. I've also never thought of any of this as some kind of “statement.” But it is, both as it is stated in reality and as it is "Reproduced—the same" in poetry.

Dickinson’s hues are produced synaesthetically through sound, and then, through the nuances of sound, to shades of meaning. The soundscape, indeed, blooms. The word “blooms,” with which this poem begins, is onomatopoeic. It’s as if the poem is suddenly blooming from its first word. Then the sound is picked up in the next line with BLameless. The “M” sound in both words makes a subtle Moan, and builds up through the poem until the sounds of those Ms “culminate” at the end of the poem into “Mountain” and “Muscle.”

Woven into those BLs and Ms you have a slew of Ss. Read through the poem focusing on just these sounds.

BLooM opon the Mountain—Stated—
BLameLeSS of a naMe—
EffLoreScenCe of a SunSet—
reproduCed—the SaMe—

Every bit of that consonance, plus the rhythmic disturbance in the meter created by the dashes, is part of the sonic landscape of the poem. Like a sunset, the poem itself blooms and effloresces, “Reproduced the Same.”

I love that spelling of"opon" instead of "upon." Most editors change this to "upon." Why! You must leave these things in Emily Dickinson's poems. They are intentional and add to the overall beauty of the poem. Opon is stronger in its sound than upon. Also it is a very clever mash-up word, meaning both open and upon. "Bloom open/upon the Mountain"

Before leaving this stanza we should also mention that glaring adjective, “blameless.” What does it mean to be blameless of a name? Is it possible that our blame may only to be found in our identities? And if so, does that mean if we can forgive and let go of the past, then we can be as blameless in the present as the flower of the sunset? Is that what it means to grow old gracefully? 

Seed, had I, my Purple Sowing
Should endow the Day—
Not a Tropic of a Twilight—
Show itself away—

The “Seed, had I” construction is meant in the sense of, “If I had seed...” If I had the seed of the Sun, I “Should” endow the Day and make it beautiful. In other words, if my seed, my words, my poetry, were as beautiful as the sun setting on the mountain, then I would likewise endow the day. Endow means to provide with an asset. As the sunset endows the mountain, the poet wills, so let my poetry endow the day.

Purple is a funny choice because Emily normally shies away from the Purple in her poetry, at least in the sense we mean when we say “purple prose,” writing that is elaborately ornate. But in this poem, she does get a little purple in her diction, at least a little more so than usual, as can be heard in the phrase, “efflorescence of a sunset.”

That line “Not a Tropic of a Twilight/ Show itself away” sets up the idea in the following stanza. If I had the Sun’s power, I could endow the day, but the tropic twilight won’t “Show itself away.” It won’t give up its secret…

Who for tilling—to the Mountain
Come, and disappear—
Whose be Her Renown, or fading,
Witness, is not here—

In other words, the one tilling the bloom of sunset on the mountain doesn’t “show itself away” (give itself away) but is a mystery as it “Come, and disappear.” And is this Giant Gardener full of Renown, or is She fading?

That’s a great question to ponder in our later years, right? There is glory and renown in a sunset, but there is also fading. We can’t see this great Tilling of our Souls, so, we don’t know which is which.

While I state—the Solemn Petals,
Far as North—and East,
Far as South and West—expanding—
Culminate—in Rest—

Here the “Solemn Petals” of the sunset are expanding, in all directions, even as they coming to rest. There is Renown in the fading, an efflorescence increasing as it comes to rest.  

The “While I state” here means the poet is stating even while the sunset does, but it also conflates the two statements. The stating of the poet, which consists of the poems, are also solemn petals expanding as they culminate in rest.

For me, this poem blossoms fully on that word "expanding," the way the word expands out in that line, coming after an already expansive naming of the four directions. And look at the sonic hues in this stanza, those two popping P sounds for example, the way the sounds of "East" and "West" set up that final "Rest."

 
And the Mountain to the Evening
Fit His Countenance—
Indicating, by no Muscle—
The Experience—

The face of the mountain is coming to a rest in evening, just as the poetic countenance of the poet is coming to rest in death. If you are taking your clues from nature, as Dickinson is here, then we can trust nature that our countenance will be fit for death. Just let it come naturally.

No need to kill yourself with too much tilling, or at the very least, it should appear effortless "Indicating, by no Muscle." Let the sunset of your life bloom on the mountain in the acceptance of its own fading away and coming to rest. 

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

The sunset blooming on the mountain like a poem

Notes:

1. David Preest points out in his explication of this poem that this isn’t the first time has Dickinson compared her own poetry to a sunset. See also F549 and F557.

2. Also, here's a blog post from Jonathan Morse that has some good insights into this poem, one of which is the pun in "tilling" and "telling," and another is that "we can now see that during the second half of 1863, when Dickinson wrote “Bloom opon the mountain,” she was thinking about the incommensurability between human language and the impassivity of the phenomenal world. From this period, three other poems that explore the theme are Fr768, “The mountains grow unnoticed”; Fr776, “Drama’s vitallest expression”; and that deep exploration of the void, Fr778, “Four trees opon a solitary acre.” 

Autumn — overlooked my Knitting —

Autumn — overlooked my Knitting —
Dyes — said He — have I —
Could disparage a Flamingo —
Show Me them — said I —

Cochineal — I chose — for deeming
It resemble Thee —
And the little Border — Dusker —
For resembling Me —


      FR786, J748, Fascicle 37, 1863

Let’s "overlook" that opening line:

Autumn — overlooked my Knitting —

The word "overlooked” is a bit misleading here, because it has the connotation of "looking past” or "ignoring," but in the context of the rest of the poem, it carries the sense of “looked over.” (Though perhaps Autumn is also ignoring the poet's more summery work too.)

Autumn, in poetry parlance, is the season of reflection, both a remembrance of the youth of summer, and a preparation for the winter of old age and death. It is also the time of harvest.

Another parallel with Autumn is Dusk, a word which appears in the second stanza of this poem. Dusk is to Night as Autumn is to Winter and as Old Age is to Death.

“Knitting,” in the context of this poem, is self-referential. It is one way to speak of the writing of poems. I’m sure there have been some terrific essays written on Dickinson’s use of this analogy. (You can see this motif on display in one of her earliest poems, which parallels this one in more ways than one, F21.)

So, we might say that, figuratively, old age is looking over the poet’s shoulder as she writes her poem. He offers her a better, richer color palette:

Dyes — said He — have I —
Could disparage a Flamingo —

There is word play in “Dyes” here, a homonym with "Dies." This is apropos, since this poem, at heart, is about the acceptance of the richness and beauty of death.

Autumn’s Dyes would disparage a flamingo. A flamingo carries the color of pink, of spring, of newness. It's a tropical, exotic bird. The word flamingo carries the word "flame" in it too. It reminds us of the heat of summer. Pink is the color of newborns, and of little girls.

 

Autumn’s Dyes "disparage" all of this. According to the Dickinson Lexicon, disparage means to “dishonor by a comparison of greater value.”

Flamingo pink is hot, says august Autumn, but I’ve got something even better than that.

Show Me them — said I

The Poet looks into the face of death and bravely demands to see these dyes. “Show Me them.” She chooses one.

Cochineal — I chose — for deeming
It resemble Thee —

Autumn shows the poet colors of a richer, deeper hue and the poet chooses, from among them, Cochineal. If spring’s pink is red with a dab of white, Autumn's cochineal is red with a dab of black.

Cochineal is notable, also, for being almost the exact color of blood.

Cochineal bugs are used to make carmine dye. Billions

are thoughtlessly killed every year to color everything 

from Nerds candy to rouge and lipstick. (Natural Dye #4)

The poet says she chooses this color because it resembles “Thee,” her beloved. Perhaps it reminds the poet of "Thee" because cochineal is the blood-red color of the heart, of life. There is also a flowering cactus called a Cochineal. Could it be that Dickinson was making a pointed joke about the prickly nature of this love?

cochineal cactus

Then for the coup de grâce we get these final lines:

And the little Border — Dusker —
For resembling Me —

Just by adding that word "Dusker" here Dickinson conjures up a sunset to accompany the deepening red of this poem. 

What is Dickinson knitting here? A scarf? A blanket? Surely it is something to keep her beloved warm, and perhaps even to cover them both.

I always read myself (and, by extension, all readers) into the role of “Thee” in Dickinson’s poems. She is knitting this poem for us, too, to keep us warm in the chilly depths of winter.

She has woven herself into the “border” of this blanket. The blood-red color of “Thee” takes up the bulk of this blanket. The poet is just visible at the blanket's edge. What color is dusker than cochineal? What color is a little closer to the darkness of midnight black? A deep maroon perhaps? It might look something like this.

The blanket your cool goth grandma might knit for you

Perhaps this poem was given to Sue with an accompanying blooming cochineal cactus plant? Dickinson often gave poems with flowers. Or maybe it was given as a note with an actual blanket she knitted herself?

Now this blanket poem, like a precious heirloom, is passed along to Thee, the reader. May it keep you warm when the temperature drops.



       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

It dropped so low — in my Regard —

It dropped so low — in my Regard —
I heard it hit the Ground —
And go to pieces on the Stones
At bottom of my Mind —

Yet blamed the Fate that flung it — less
Than I denounced Myself,
For entertaining Plated Wares
Upon My Silver Shelf —


          -FR785, J747, fascicle 37, 1863

Some Dickinson poems function as generic parables. In this one you can plug X in for “It.” X is anything that you once fell for, but has now fallen.

You could try, as many have, to apply the situation to Dickinson’s life. You could plug in for X some friend or lover who has fallen in Emily’s esteem. Or perhaps “publication” could be plugged in here, since there is another poem in this same fascicle which begins “Publication is the auction of the mind of man.”  But really it would all be guesswork. The poem could be applied to any disillusionment

How does it land for you? That is the important question I think.

There was a guy back in HS who I thought was the coolest guy ever. How amazing, I thought back then, that this guy doesn’t care what others think of him. He was the quarterback of the football team, handsome, well-dressed and wealthy. He had a sexy indifference that I deeply envied. But all of that surface show turned out to be like the silver plating over a base metal. Many years later this friend imploded in a spectacular way and the baseness was revealed on the craggy rocks of reality. It turns out, in retrospect, that my social anxieties were less a defect, and more a sign of a desire to connect with others. It was my own self-doubt that turned out to be a foundation for building a Shelf. (My own Shelf is made of recycled wood, but we can't all be Emily Dickinson.) 

The parable of this poem may be compared to another from the bible, the one about not building your house on sand, from Matthew 7. “Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash.”

There is a parallel between the two parables even in that rock the house is built on. In Dickinson’s poem she hears, in her fertile imagination, this once esteemed thing hit the ground “And go to pieces on the Stones/ At bottom of my Mind —”

The bottom of Dickinson’s mind turns out to be as solid as the rocks in Jesus’ parable. But here we have an added element. If the bottom of her mind is like rock, the top is a silver shelf. What a wonderful rhyme with  "myself." She takes the parable to the next level. Make the thing where you keep your valuables the more valuable thing. The invaluable things will fall on their own accord, when... “the rains come down, the streams rise, and the winds blow and beat against that house,” but the silver shelf built in that house upon the solid rock will be inviolate.

For me, the idea of this poem being about publishing, and Dickinson's own poetry, makes some sense. I find the clue for this in that word “entertaining.” Dickinson is not here to entertain us with easy poetry, she’s here for those more rare and durable metals that belong on her shelf.

It’s fascinating to me that, in light of Dickinson’s aversion to publishing, in poems such as this one she seems to be writing for the general public. A parable, by its generic nature, has a public purpose, and yet what was Dickinson’s plan for making these poems available to this general readership? Did she expect that the same fates that threw the plated wares to the ground (according to this poem) would assist in leaving her finely wrought Silver Shelf for future generations? And doesn't it appear as if the fates have done their part? Here we are now, reading the poem, her letter to the word, that is sitting still upon her silver shelf.

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Notes: 

1. I think it is meaningful that this poem and the one proceeding it in the fascicle both begin with something being dropped. If you read the poems in order, you can hardly help notice this. She drops this word "drop" here as if it were a hint. In the previous one, FR784, Dickinson wants to drop her burden of responsibility for a quick fix, and in this one what drops is something false. There is a progression between these two poems then. The desire for the quick fix in the previous poem is, in this poem, perhaps, the false thing that is dropped. In other words, in the previous poem, she wants to drop the burden, but in this poem Dickinson decides to drop her desire instead. 

2. There's a guy on YouTube that breaks down some Dickinson poems. He can get pretty histrionic when he gets worked up about the poems which I appreciate. There's a moment in his breakdown of this poem where he gets so worked up he throws his head back for a moment and then brings it forward and says  Wawawooey. It's around 7:45 mark in this video. I just thought I'd share this great hidden moment with the greater Prowling Bee community. 

I sometimes drop it, for a Quick –

I sometimes drop it, for a Quick –
The Thought to be alive –
Anonymous Delight to know –
And Madder – to conceive –

Consoles a Wo so monstrous
That did it tear all Day,
Without an instant’s Respite –
‘Twould look too far – to Die –

Delirium – diverts the Wretch
For Whom the Scaffold neighs –
The Hammock’s motion lulls the Heads
So close on Paradise –

A Reef – crawled easy from the Sea
Eats off the Brittle Line –
The Sailor doesn't know the Stroke –
Until He’s past the Pain –


    -FR784, J708, fascicle 37, 1863


This one gets me immediately with that first line. What is being dropped? Woe itself, assuredly. Though it could also be a goal. I dropped the drudgery of my goal for a Quick (blank.) Quick could be a noun, in which case it means “Life’ or it could be an adjective without a referent. In other words, something gets dropped before the sentence even comes to an end. It gets dropped quickly!

What else could you say is being dropped? The Martyrdom? The Renunciation? (This idea comes from the poem about renunciation preceding this one in the fascicle.)

The “it” being dropped in that first line stands for something difficult, something painful.

Drop it for a "Quick." A quick what, Emily? A quick fix? A quickie? A quick thought of being alive. It’s almost like she’s talking quickly out loud here, jumping ahead of her own thoughts, the way she elides the object of the sentence and picks it up in the next line. You can imagine it as spoken dialogue. If this were dialogue then the dashes might function as little questions in the pattern of speech: “I sometimes drop it, for a Quick (a quick what?) The Thought to be alive (why?) Anonymous Delight to know (but) and madder to conceive (What even is life? It seems crazy.)"

Each line is so redolent with meaning. But the basic gist is, you feel like dropping something difficult and painful for some quick fix, some easy way out.

Just have a quick little fix of whatever drug you need. Whatever diversion. What is your drug of choice?  Emily uses...

The Thought to be alive -

This line stands on its own, as a complete thought. You really can’t ever get past it completely. The thought to be alive. To be alive is the “quick,” if we take the definition of quick as a noun. Life.

I mean, really stop and think about that line. It's heady. 

Now feel that line in counterweight to what it is that is dropped: Woe. Whoa.

Anonymous Delight to know–

That word anonymous there is so packed. Why is Delight anonymous? Think of it as opposed to Woe. If delight is anonymous, then Woe is personal. If anonymous Delight is heady, then Woe is hearty.

Why is Delight anonymous? Because delight doesn’t care. When I am in a state of pure delight I am disconnected from the suffering of my fellow beings. I’m anonymous. It's wonderful in its way. And perhaps even necessary from time to time. But it's ultimately empty. It’s only in relation with other that we become Somebody. But in relation comes, by necessity, Woe.

What is the Delight? There are probably as many forms as there are types of people. But in this case, it is the mere thought of being alive. Being alive is an experience being translated into feeling, and then into thought, and then, perhaps, into words on a page.  

And Madder – to conceive –

Look at this line in isolation. It’s mad to conceive. What does it mean to conceive? Conceive may refer to "Thought," as in the line before it, but it also has the sense of "Birth." (It's strange that birth and thought share the same word, no? That thought itself is a strange conception!) The two senses of the word "Conception" seem to come together here. Dickinson ties the two ideas, of thought and life, into this one word.

And Madder – to conceive –  There is something a little mad about this line. It’s almost Shakespearean the way it turns in on itself. The thought of what life really is will drive you mad. Why? It makes you really question why.

The madness also points AWAY from the sanity, because sanity seems to be found in the woe. Woe is found in our connection with others.

(I was having a conversation with students today over the way people bond through complaining. I was reminded of this poem, and an earlier one in this fascicle, FR780, which is about two women who are wed through the bond of their grief.)

 Now we are now set up for the second stanza. This quick diversion consoles...

Consoles a Wo so monstrous
That did it tear all Day,
Without an instant’s Respite –
‘Twould look too far – to Die –

To have anonymous delight in being alive consoles us. We need it. Because the monstrous woe, which would be the loss of the beloved, can be so great that without an “Instant’s respite” we would want to kill ourselves, because “‘Twould look too far to die.”

I like that word “Instant” in there. Instantaneous gratification. As opposed to the work of woe, which is part of the drudgery, part of thing you wish to drop.

Delirium – diverts the Wretch
For Whom the Scaffold neighs –
The Hammock’s motion lulls the Heads
So close on Paradise –

Delirium is that mad happiness, that drug high, that gives some instant respite to the wretch "For Whom the Scaffold neighs–" I hear the line “For whom the bell tolls,” by John Donne here. (I would guess Emily was familiar with that poem.)

But for whom the scaffold neighs is…nightmarish. The scaffold, which is murdering the self for…being a murderer! sounds like a horse neighing, a horse rearing before galloping to hell. It creates a disturbing and surreal image. Neigh also sounds like Nay. The scaffold nays.

But remember, in this poem the neighing scaffold appears to be a punishment the poet wishes to willingly face! It’s akin to the cross. The mad delirious fun is a diversion from what really matters, which is the damned who are dying in distress.

The Hammock’s motion lulls the Heads
So close on Paradise –

The Quick fix is like the hammock’s motion lulling the Heads. It’s hard to know what those hammocks are doing there at first read, but the association is with boats. This is a sailor lying in the hammock. The waves are rocking him to sleep. The motion lulls. If the sailor was not lulled to sleep, he would be able to navigate the shoals and get to land. He let himself be lulled (drugged) to his own demise, and that of his crew.

The poem flips here I think. The first half of the poem seems to say, you need a diversion now and then to keep from killing yourself. The final stanza though, says to get back on watch! Don’t let your fellows be sacrificed on the gallows. Don’t let the ship be wrecked.

A Reef – crawled easy from the Sea

Eats off the Brittle Line –

At first I thought the first line meant that a sailor or someone to save the sailor is crawling up onto the reef. And the brittle line was a rope that was being eaten by the coral. 

But upon further reading I’m inclined to think that the Reef is personified as something that so easily can crawl up and cause us to wreck. Perhaps a fling?  Is it an affair we are “dropping” our burden for? It is some kind of addiction. That's the the reef that crawls so easily from the sea.

“Eats off the brittle line” is, itself, a brittle line. The brittle line in the context of this poem, as I read it, is the line reaching of safety being offered from the shore, but also the line between life and death. The coral gnaws through this fragile life-line, and the sailor dies in the wreck, which, of course, could have been avoided if he kept on his watch.

 The Sailor doesn't know the Stroke –
Until He’s past the Pain –

The sailor doesn’t know the stroke (of death) until he’s past the pain. I imagine him drunk, happily swaying in his cot as the ship hits the coral, dreaming of the pleasures of the South Seas. He relaxed his guard and now the whole crew is lost. 

Heavy.

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Guillou’s Adieu! (1892)

Waterhouse's Miranda (1916)

Demont-Breton's Stella Maris (1894)

Check out the terrific blog post on paintings

 of shipwrecks from which I found these images. 

Never for Society

Never for Society
He shall seek in vain—
Who His own acquaintance
Cultivate—Of Men

Wiser Men may weary—
But the Man within
Never knew Satiety—
Better entertain

Than could Border Ballad—
Or Biscayan Hymn—
Neither introduction
Need You—unto Him—


      -FR783, J746, Fascicle 37, 1863


The syntax on this one is a little tricky, but once unraveled it is pretty straightforward. Here's a prose translation for the lines below, as I understand them.

Never for Society
He shall seek in vain—

One (who is wise) shall never vainly seek for the society of others.

Who His own acquaintance
Cultivate—Of Men
Wiser Men may weary—
But the Man within

Never knew Satiety—

If you are wise and cultivate an acquaintance with the One in yourself, then you may grow weary of others, but the One within to whom you acquaint yourself, you will never become satiated with his/her company.

Better entertain
Than could Border Ballad—
Or Biscayan Hymn—

The One inside that you become friends with will entertain you better than any Scottish border ballad or Biscayan (Basque) hymn.

Neither introduction
Need You—unto Him—

Unlike the people in society, you need no introduction to this Friend inside of you.

 
Of course, understanding this poem syntactically and understanding this poem internally are two different things.

It’s hard to know for sure who this “Man” inside is meant to be. It could possibly be Christ, with that capital M “Man” and capital H “His.” It could also be read as higher/deeper Self, with that adjectival indicator “own” in the line “He shall never seek in vain/ Who His own acquaintance/ Cultivate.” 

This poem goes some way toward explaining Emily Dickinson’s increasingly reclusive nature. She was vastly entertained by her own ballads, and by her own hymn-like poems. Even the most compelling external distractions cannot rival the richness of self-discovery.

This is a model for the reader. A majority of the poems written before this one in Dickinson’s oeuvre exhibit a painful yearning for a Beloved. In this one the Beloved has been internalized as Self.

It is instructive to pair this poem with a very similar one from earlier in this fascicle, FR773, which begins, "Conscious am I in my Chamber –/Of a shapeless friend –"

Compare, for instance, these lines from the earlier poem,

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

To the lines from this one,

Of Men
Wiser Men may weary—
But the Man within

Never knew Satiety—

Read together you get a a growing sense of this "shapeless Friend" within. In this poem you get the added idea that this Friend is...entertaining! To find this entertaining Self within is a challenge worth taking up. 

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Write your own Border Ballads and Biscayan Hymns!