Ah, Teneriffe—Receding Mountain—

Ah, Teneriffe—Receding Mountain—
Purples of Ages halt for you—
Sunset reviews her Sapphire Regiments —
Day—drops you His Red Adieu!

Still clad in your Mail of Ices—
Eye of Granite—and Ear of Steel—
Passive alike—to pomp—and Parting—
Ah, Teneriffe—We’re pleading still—


     -F752, J666, Fascicle 36, 1863


Teneriffe is a volcano in the Canary Islands. Dickinson had a thing for volcanoes as metaphor. There are 9 other poems of hers that mention volcanoes. A couple of them mention Etna, and a couple mention Vesuvius. Taken together, we begin to get a real sense of the meaning. You can read several of them along with a fascinating in-depth essay on the subject here .

In this particular poem you get a sense of the volcano as stand-in for someone that is immune to displays of grandeur, to pomp, insensible to any pleading. It is a cold queen, covered in armor of frost.

And yet, inside, we know, must be boiling hot, ready to blow any minute.

That disparity, all but hidden here, just as it would be to a casual tourist looking at a volcano, is, I think, at the hot heart of this poem.

It is worth comparing this version, which is the one presented by Dickinson in the fascicle, to the version given to Sue Gilbert the year before in 1862:

Ah, Teneriffe!
Retreating Mountain!
Purples of Ages—pause for you—
Sunset—reviews her Sapphire Regiment—
Day—drops you her Red Adieu!

Still—Clad in your Mail of ices—
Thigh of Granite—and thew—of Steel—
Heedless—alike—of pomp—or parting

Ah, Teneriffe!
I’m kneeling—still—

The differences are fascinating. In A., the poem for Sue, who is surely the volcano, the mountain is retreating. In B. it is receding. The purples of ages pause in A. In B. they halt. “Day” is a her in A. and a His in B. "Still" is set off by itself with a dash, twice, in A., giving an air of stillness, but not in B., where it gives us more of a sense of continuance. The “Thigh of Granite” becomes “Eye of granite” and “thew of steel” becomes “Ear of Steel.” Heedless in A. becomes Passive in B. (That’s a big difference, heedless is a quite active verb, just as retreating is more active than receding.). The kneeling of A. becomes, after too much kneeling perhaps, the pleading of B. The exclamation points in A. disappear in B.

Much could be made out of each of the differences if we were to take a magnifying glass to them. But suffice to say that there is a general tone change between the two. The poem for Sue seems to have been written in exclamation-pointed passion, while the later poem has an air of being written in repose. The accusatory “retreating” and “heedless” have turned into the more stolid “receding” and “passive” of the later poem. The sexual hint of “thighs of granite” (that won’t submit) have become “eyes of granite.”

Dickinson, it would seem, is still pleading, but there is an air of acceptance now. The volcano is no longer heedless of Dickinson’s pleas (not to mention those purples, sapphires and reds), but is now merely passive. We’ve gone from a hopeful “pause” to the more definitive “halt.” The poet may be resigned, but, she hasn’t given up. And we know that, eventually, the icy volcano will erupt in fire.

There is much heat below the surface of this poem, as there must have been in the relationship of Emily and Sue. And this is true, too, of all us with our icy exteriors masking a passionate nature.

It is this final point that I want to especially emphasize. This poem, though perhaps first written for Sue, was also written for me and you. It seems to be reminding us that neither an icy exterior, nor an explosive interior, is good for any of us. Melt the ice, and simmer down. The poet is kneeling and pleading still. 

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Ah, Teneriffe!

Precious to Me — She still shall be —

Precious to Me — She still shall be —
Though She forget the name I bear —
The fashion of the Gown I wear —
The very Color of My Hair —

So like the Meadows — now —
I dared to show a Tress of Theirs
If haply — She might not despise
A Buttercup’s Array —

I know the Whole — obscures the Part —

The fraction — that appeased the Heart

Till Number’s Empery —
Remembered — as the Milliner’s flower
When Summer’s Everlasting Dower —
Confronts the dazzled Bee.


     -F751, J727, Fascicle 36, 1863


This one becomes more beautiful and dazzling every time I read it. I’ll see if I can say why, though when reading a poem over and over there is a cumulative effect that leads to being overturned, and a dream logic that must be experienced rather than explained.

I’m going to put aside the supposition that most commentators bring up about this poem, that it is for Sue. It may well have been, and was probably accompanied by a buttercup, but to reduce the poem to this is to miss the point of the poem. Forget the names, forget the specificities of the life. “She,” after all, is unnamed here. Forget the fashion of the time (as opposed to the never-goes-out-of-fashion style of the buttercups). Forget the color of the hair. But remember the meadow from which this dead “flower” in the hat on top of the head of hair came from. Unlike us, summer is everlasting. And so is poetry.

Precious to Me — She still shall be —
Though She forget the name I bear —
The fashion of the Gown I wear —
The very Color of My Hair —

This opening almost seems like a complaint, a lament. (Dickinson often begins her poems with this sort of ruse. See F748 in this same fascicle for another good example of a poem that begins with a complaint, but which is really anything but.) 

I will love Her long after She has forgotten my name. This very poem is a kind of proof of this long lasting love. It is a poem still loving, 150 years later. In that sense it reminds me of Shakespeare's famous sonnet 18. It is worth noting that Dickinson's poem is also a 16 line sonnet.

To forget the name of a lover, or the color of their hair, would take a long time, so this poem makes an uncanny move from the get go. It puts us in the future, long after fashions have changed, after the body, itself, perhaps, is gone.

So like the Meadows — now —
I dared to show a Tress of Theirs

The poet has become “So like the Meadows — now —” She has turned into a meadow, Now. The everpresent “nowness” of this poem is akin to the ever present buttercups each spring.

Like Whitman come back as the grass, this poet has come back as a meadow full of flowers. (There is another poem with a similar idea, in which Dickinson actually seems to be one-upping Whitman, "Contending with the Grass —/ Near Kinsman to Herself —” See F642.)

If this idea of a buttercup in a meadow is taken metaphorically to be the poem, then we can extend the trope to say that we still have a field full of Dickinson’s poems, a whole meadow's worth.

The fashions may have changed, but the poems stay in style. (In the case of Dickinson, though, we still do remember her name, and her hair color too. I’ve seen locks of her hair. It still holds its lovely auburn hue.)

I like that Dickinson, having become the meadow, “dared to show a tress of theirs.” There is much to be wondered about in that past tense verb “dared” here. She dared to show us a meadow’s tress,

If haply — She (we) might not despise
A Buttercup’s Array —

If we put ourselves in place of the She here, then we are being shown the returning glory of the spring through Dickinson’s poem, as opposed to that which we may have come to despise, the transient, and eventually forgotten, body.

I know the Whole — obscures the Part —

The fraction — that appeased the Heart

Till Number’s Empery —
Remembered — as the Milliner’s flower
When Summer’s Everlasting Dower —
Confronts the dazzled Bee.

This stanza is hard to parse because "Remembered" modifies "fraction" rather than "Empery." I think it goes like this:

I know the whole obscures the part, but the fraction that appeased my heart, until sheer numbers took over, will be remembered, just as the flower placed by the hat maker* remembers the bee even as the dazzled bee is confronted by the gift of an everlasting summer, the recurring meadows full of flowers.

The flower on the hat is the poet, remembering the bee who once loved her, and whom she still loves. It’s wistful, but also, with the gift of the buttercup, and the poem, the sadness has been transformed into “Summer’s Everlasting Dower.”

         -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

a meadow full of buttercups

*There is the possibility that the milliner’s flower is meant to be artificial here. I like the suggestion of the artificial, as a poem has an artificiality about it, but I think the flower must've had real congress with the bee for this image to really work. 

It's also worth noting that the She in this poem is a Bee. The bee is usually the male part in the analogy of flowers and bees, but not here.

We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s Act—

We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s Act—
And later—when we die—
A little Water supplicate—
Of fingers going by—

It intimates the finer want—
Whose adequate supply
Is that Great Water in the West—
Termed Immortality—


      -F750, J726, Fascicle 36, 1863


This poem would be fairly easy to follow if Dickinson's ideas about Immortality were easier to comprehend. What Emily Dickinson means by “Immortality” in her poems goes far beyond the usual definition of the word. In one of her letters she writes, "It may be she came to show you Immortality." So what is it she came to show us? The following quotes are all taken from her letters.

"No heart that break
but further went than
immortality."

"Emerson's intimacy with
his "Bee" only
immortalized him."

"The risks of immortality
are perhaps its charm."

"A letter always seemed
to me like Immortality,
for is it not the Mind
alone, without corporeal friend?"

"Dear friend, can you walk,
were the last words that I wrote her.
Dear friend, I can fly-
her immortal reply."

"An hour for books
those enthralling friends
the immortalities"

"The immortality of flowers
must enrich our own."

See what I mean by difficult to pin down?

This poem makes a connection between a natural desire for water, and a finer desire for Immortality, symbolized by "that Great Water in the West." This begs the question of what the connection between a natural thirst and spiritual thirst might be. What is this connection? Thirst is a biological response necessary to maintain the body's required need for H20. There is an evolutionary basis to it.

Inside of time, thirst makes sense. It makes sense because a fuel-based energy system could only exist inside of time. Something has to keep you going. Thirst can only exist inside of in time, and time can only exist, you might even say, because of thirst. Time and thirst are inextricable.

Being material creatures we are stuck in this order of time, poignantly and wonderfully so.

But what might this finer spiritual thirst for Immortality be? Is fuel needed in the world of spirit? Can there be any desire at all when you have Immortality?

Might what we are thirsting for be no more thirsting? And, if so, isn't that what death is?

Okay, back to the poem.

And later—when we die—
A little Water supplicate—
Of fingers going by—

Later —when we die— we are still supplicating for water. To supplicate is to beg earnestly. It starts from birth and ends with the grave. Life is a beggar’s banquet to quote Mick Jagger.

...fingers going by—

We take our water from fingers going by, such a touching, tender image, brushing fingertips as they hand us water, fingers that are warm, tingling, reaching, full of the energy of life.

It intimates the finer want—
Whose adequate supply

Dickinson internally rhymes "supplicate" with "intimate" and then "adequate." This rhyme stands out in this poem. There is something intimate and supplicating in this poem, something leading us toward the "adequate."

What is this finer want that leads us to the adequate supply? I don't think finer means better here (because how can you get better than water?) but rather finer as in more refined, more subtle.

Is that Great Water in the West—
Termed Immortality—

That Great Water in the West. What is it? Is it beauty? Like the beauty of a sun setting in the West? Is it Truth? The sunset represents the glory of an inflamed love upon the poignancy of leaving.

Perhaps it is being fully present and aware of our mortality that leads us to Immortality.


       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Immortality by William Michael Harnett, 1876

P.S. It is worth repeating this quote one more time:

"No heart that break
but further went than
immortality."

Where Thou art — that — is Home

Where Thou art — that — is Home
Cashmere — or Calvary — the same —
Degree — or Shame —
I scarce esteem Location's Name —
So I may Come —

What Thou dost — is Delight —
Bondage as Play — be sweet —
Imprisonment — Content —
And Sentence — Sacrament —
Just We two — meet —

Where Thou art not — is Woe —
Tho' Bands of Spices — row —
What Thou dost not — Despair —
Tho' Gabriel — praise me — Sire —


     -F749, J725, fascicle 36, 1863


David Preest points out that this poem has a tightly organized structure: "‘Where Thou art’ is described in five lines, and then ‘What thou dost’ in five lines. In the contrasting last stanza ‘Where thou art not’ and ‘What thou dost not’ get two lines each.” It is fascinating to see the structures Dickinson invented upon which to hang her thoughts. I also like the subtle distinction Dickinson makes in this poem between Being (Thou art) and Doing (Thou dost).

The poem begins,

Where Thou art — that — is Home
Cashmere — or Calvary — the same —

The word Calvary brings the idea of Christ into this poem, though that doesn’t mean it is about Christ, as some commentators insist. You would think so, perhaps, at first, because of those Thous, and the appearance of Gabriel at the end, but Dickinson very often conflates worldly love with religious symbolism, and I suspect this poem was written about a lover. Besides, if this poem was about Christ, then I don't think cashmere OR Calvary would be equated as the same. It would be Calvary all the way.

The juxtapositions of pairs are intriguing in this poem. There is much that could be made of Cashmere vs. Calvary. Cashmere is a tactile luxury. Calvary represents torture upon a cross. The juxtaposition of the two invokes not only rich vs. poor, but also pleasure vs. pain, and, ultimately, selfishness vs. selflessness. The two would normally be set up against each other like so, but here they are both summarily dismissed. What does any of it matter, the poet says, as long as “Thou” art near?

               — the same —

Degree — or Shame —

“Degree” means honor, according to the Dickinson lexicon. Honor is usually set against shame, but again, they are seen as one and the same in the realm of love.

I scarce esteem Location's Name —
So I may Come —

In fact, location itself is suspect. I can come to you wherever, says the poet. Home, it would seem, is where the proverbial heart is, but the way Dickinson puts this gives us the added sense that in the naming of location and the placing of self in said location, there is something taken away from connection.

Naming your location is a way of saying I am “here,” which automatically places the other “there.” To do away with this distance is the goal. To “come,” one must forget location.

There are more thought-provoking juxtapositions in the second stanza, imprisonment vs. contentment, sentence vs. sacrament, but the most intriguing one is

Bondage as Play — be sweet —

There is a possible suggestion of sexuality in this poem, with the line “I may come” and the Shakespearean idea of “Doing,” as in, doing the sexual act. So this line seems like it could have that vibe in it too. Seeing a sexual connotation here may just be a case of interpreting with modern eyes, but “bondage as play” is such an odd turn of phrase that it’s hard not to see this possibility here. There is another possibly sexual allusion near the end of the poem with the reference to the angel Gabriel, but I'll discuss that when we get to it. 

Imprisonment (is)— Content —
And Sentence — Sacrament —
Just We two — meet —

After the power dynamics of bondage and sentencing have been brought up, this final line of the second stanza makes me think that there may be a double meaning to “meet.” Just we two meet together, but also, just we two are “meet,” as in “proper” or “suitable.” In other words, these dynamics work for us, they are proper in the context of our relationship. “Meet” here rhymes, after all, with “Sweet”.

Where Thou art not — is Woe —
Tho' Bands of Spices — row —

I was intrigued by the idea of bands of spices rowing. I picture spices banded up together in boats and rowed to shore for trade across continents. This, like cashmere earlier in the poem, evokes exotic sensual pleasure.

Any other ideas, dear reader, about what "Bands of Spices — row —" might mean?

What Thou dost not — Despair —

Tho' Gabriel — praise me — Sire —

Gabriel praising the poet evokes Luke 1:26, when the angel Gabriel praises Mary and tells her she is pregnant with Christ. “And the angel came in unto her, and said, Hail, thou that art highly favored, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women.”

(It’s worth mentioning that both this poem and the poem previous to this one in Fascicle 36 make reference to the two most common prayers of Catholicism, The Lord’s Prayer, which is referenced in F748 and The Hail Mary in this one.)

The last two lines of this poem may also be taken in a sexual way. What you do not do (to me) causes me despair, even if Gabriel tells me that, though a virgin, I’ve become pregnant with Christ. That may be an interpretive stretch but the suggestion is there.

The heightened language of “Thou art” and “bands of spices” and “Sire” gives this poem a tone of seriousness, but it is also playful; Bondage as Play. There is a tone of deep reverence and yet it also is a bit naughty. In other words you can find in this poem both "Degree — or Shame —".

So which is it? Where can you locate this poem, this poet? You don't. You can't. You just enter it. 

I scarce esteem Location's Name —
So I may Come —

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Tho' Bands of Spices — row —

P.S. The focus on being and doing in this poem reminded me of this great Kurt Vonnegut quote:

“To be is to do - Socrates

To do is to be - Sartre

Do Be Do Be Do - Sinatra”

God gave a loaf to every bird,

God gave a Loaf to every Bird —
But just a Crumb — to Me —
I dare not eat it — tho' I starve —
My poignant luxury —

To own it — touch it —
Prove the feat — that made the Pellet mine —
Too happy — for my Sparrow's chance —
For Ampler Coveting —

It might be Famine — all around —
I could not miss an Ear —
Such Plenty smiles upon my Board —
My Garner shows so fair —

I wonder how the Rich — may feel —
An Indiaman — An Earl —
I deem that I — with but a Crumb —
Am Sovreign of them all —

       - F748, J791, Fascicle 36, 1863

I love the Emily Dickinson poems that show us how appreciating what we have can make us richer than those with worldly riches. My favorite of these is F597, a poem that makes me feel so rich that I’ve committed it to memory. "'Tis little I — could care for Pearls —/ Who own the ample sea —..."

This poem is in that category. It starts off sounding like a complaint:

God gave a loaf to every bird,

But just a crumb to me;

Here Dickinson seems to be playfully conflating Matthew 6:25, the scripture about God feeding the birds, with the Lord's Prayer, "Give us this day our daily bread." It sounds at first like Emily is whining, but she's being arch. She is, in fact, as we shall see, doing the opposite of whining. 

She's only been given a crumb, but says,

I dare not eat it, though I starve,—

This sounds like a riddle. What is a food you dare not eat, even though you starve?

This must not be food we are talking about, but some other kind of sustenance. Different commentators have different opinions about what this crumb symbolizes. Maybe the crumb is Emily's poetic gift? Or maybe Emily is talking about her beloved sister-in-law who is living next door to her and married to her brother, Austin. Austin gets the whole loaf, while Dickinson gets just the occasional crumb. 

But why does Dickinson say that she dare not eat the crumb she is given even though she is starving for more? Maybe Dickinson is making a point here about love? If we devour the one we love, there is nothing left of them. If she is talking about Sue here, then this wisdom paid off. By giving Sue space, Dickinson kept her, albeit next door and married to her brother, for over 30 years. In fact Sue was still there to nurse Emily when she died.

The next lines are a riddle too,

My poignant luxury
To own it, touch it, prove the feat
That made the pellet mine,—

What is a luxury that is poignant?

I think it must  be something beloved that you are afraid to lose.

(I am reminded here of that heart-breaking Ben Jonson line upon the loss of his young son, “My sin was in loving you too much.”)

And what is the "feat" that Emily "proved" to make the pellet hers? The feat, as we see in the following lines, is in not coveting more:

Too happy in my sparrow chance
For ampler coveting.

(We have seen Emily compare herself to a sparrow before. She does so for instance in F121, "Her breast is fit for pearls," another poem that seems to be for Sue.)

The second stanza begins: 

It might be famine all around,

I could not miss an ear,

Whereas the first stanza starts off with plenty, loaves for every bird, this one throws doubt on the first, positing the possibility of famine all around.

The word “ear" in this poem, is doing so much.

I can see so many possible meanings of it here. The first meaning I suspect is “ear of grain.” She has her crumb, her pellet, her “ear” of grain, and she could not, will not, miss it, even if there is famine all around. She WILL find it. 

And what is this famine all around? What is Emily talking about? Is the famine a spiritual one? A romantic one? A literal one? I think she is likely referring to the general dearth of love in the world.

Emily links her grain, her food, her nutrients, to the ear, and, therefore, to the act of listening. She could not miss listening. This is the fullness of love. "If music be the food of love, play on." Shakespeare.

And in this second sense of "ear," what does the poet hear? This line points backward to the line before it. She hears, “It might be famine all around.”

She is listening to the lack all around her, possibly to the literal lack, to the fact that there are plenty of birds (and people) out there with no loaf at all, not even a crumb, literally starving. She is listening to the poor and destitute.

Or she could be listening to the spiritually poor; those who have loaves aplenty, but cannot be content.

The “ear” could be for hearing the line following this one as well,

Such plenty smiles upon my board,

Here is your endlessly fulfilling little morsel, says Emily. There is famine everywhere, especially among the rich, but I, who appear poor, am truly rich beyond compare. And so are you, if you share my board with  me.

There is another sexy-cute possibility for "ear" here, the ear of a lover.

You may have your riches, but I have my little portion, my person, and I’m not going to miss an ear when loving him/her.

I’m sure there are many other interpretations of what “I would not miss an ear” might mean. It’s an extremely rich line in this poem because of the conflation of ear of grain with human ear. (Oddly the etymological derivation of ear of grain and human ear seem to be completely unrelated.)

 
I imagine Emily liked the idea of grains that can hear. In one of her most famous poems, “Because I could not stop for death” we encounter grains that can see: "I passed the gazing grain.” Our food senses us.

The final meaning of ear must be tuned to the poem itself. It hears itself. The crumb might not represent a person at all, but the morsel of sensual music in the poem itself. Listen to the music, for instance, of the airy double rhyme Dickinson gives us for "ear":

Her garner shows so fair. 

"Garner" is defined as a gathering of grain. It is a "fair" (beautiful) gathering of poetic grain the poet has upon her board, upon which we are now feasting.

I wonder how the rich may feel,—
An Indiaman—an Earl?
I deem that I with but a crumb
Am sovereign of them all.

Emily knows how rich she truly is, richer than all the earls and Indiamen. The Dickinson lexicon defines Indiaman as: One in the shipping business; man involved in the East India Company; [fig.] millionaire; rich person.

Dickinson points to both old wealth, represented by the Earl, and new wealth, represented by the Indiaman, neither of which have the true wealth that the poet does. She reigns sovereign. 

Hear that says the supreme ear of the poem.

           -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

The Artist is listening

It's easy to invent a Life—

It's easy to invent a Life—
God does it—every Day—
Creation—but the Gambol
Of His Authority—

It's easy to efface it—
The thrifty Deity
Could scarce afford Eternity
To Spontaneity—

The Perished Patterns murmur—
But His Perturbless Plan
Proceed—inserting Here—a Sun—
There—leaving out a Man—

    -F747, J724, Fascicle 37, 1863

Reading essays online about this poem, and even looking at the venerable Helen Vendler's take, one would think this was a poem that was railing against God's lack of concern for human life, but I see it the opposite way. First of all, I think Emily knew better than to blame a deity for the necessity of change, especially since she famously didn't believe in said deity. That would be a strange thing to do.

This is a poem, rather, embracing the necessity for God (read: Nature) to continually erase the old life, and invent new ones. And not only is she embracing it, but she is also identifying with it, which is why she looks at life here in terms of "Perished Patterns," and "invention." God, here, is a playful, but efficient artist. Just like Emily.

It's easy to invent a Life—
God does it—every Day—

Creation keeps on creating, life begets life. This happens every "Day." Day is presented to us here with a capital D, which clues us in that this is a life we're talking about: a "Day"represents a life, just as the "Sun," later in this poem, represents a Son.

Creation—but the Gambol
Of His Authority—

It's easy to efface it—

Is there some Grand Designer that plays willy nilly with life, creating and effacing at whim? Did Emily believe that, or is she setting us up here for a deeper truth?

The philosophical inquiry of this poem centers around a question: if we could live forever, what would be lost? The answer to this question is posed by Dickinson like this,

The thrifty Deity
Could scarce afford Eternity
To Spontaneity—

If you had eternity, then you would lose spontaneity. You would lose change. To be eternal is, essentially, to stay the same. That’s the thought-provoking core of this poem for me.

God, or, if you will, the universe, is thrifty. To say God is thrifty is, perhaps, to grumble. ("Hey God, how about being more generous and giving us more life!") But seen another way, to be thrifty is good, it’s efficient. Life may gambol, but it doesn’t gamble. It is invested in the future, which is only possible if it moves forward and dies to the past. God, here in the guise of the prime mover, will place a new sun/son (read: child) for every father and mother who becomes effaced. This son/sun will have something the older generation doesn’t. It doesn’t matter what that something is, so much as it matters that there is something different. Each old plan, each "Perished Pattern," meaning, chiefly, ourselves, "murmurs" about this loss and may be quite perturbed by it. But the way of the universe, in a constant state of perturbation, is to be perturbless. You can't upset upsetness itself. You can't destroy destruction. 

(Or can you? She doesn't go there in this poem, but the way to immortality is explored in other poems, including F743 from this same fascicle.)

The Perished Patterns murmur—
But His Perturbless Plan
Proceed

You get a philosophical treatise just inside the pattern of those P words. The proliferation of P sounds seems to stem from the word “Plan.” You get the old Plan, which has now become "Perished Patterns," and you get the new Plan, which, in its very changeability, is Perturbless. 

Proceed—inserting Here—a Sun—
There—leaving out a Man—

We all become sun/son or daughter inserted into Eternity, and we all become, eventually, the man or woman left out. (And what a way to put it, "leaving out Man," invoking, as it does, the feeling of becoming old and left out.)

We are, indeed, as sons/suns, part and parcel of the gamboling of creation. Like lambs, we gambol, innocent young things running around a field in joyful abandon. Until we don't. Lambs to the slaughter.

But why grumble when the perturbless plan is what makes life so full of spontaneity, of surprise and wonder? Would we give that up if we could? Would we want to? 

The use of the word “Authority” in the first stanza makes the poem feel like a rebellious complaint. But "Authority" is also a way to invoke the realm of the "Author."

Dickinson, as the Author of this poem, is well acquainted with the necessity to constantly invent new patterns, not to mention disrupting old ones. You could say her entire poetics is based on this idea. For the vast majority of her poems she takes “common meter,” otherwise known as "hymn meter," the signature meter of the church songs rooted in English tradition that were so pervasive in early America, and deconstructs it, both in form and content. This poem is no exception. Hymn meter is 4-3-4-3. The pattern here goes 4-3-3-3/ 3-3-4-3/ 3-3-4-3, which may well be a unique pattern among her works.

This is a poem, as I read it, about learning to accept change, including loss of self.

-/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Note: 

Emily had no children, that we know of. Her poems may be seen as progeny, still living among us. So the last lines of this poem might be read as the gamboling of her authority:

Proceed—inserting Here—a Sun—

There—leaving out a Man—

Or in other words, the poem is the son she has inserted here, leaving out the Man in the process. 

It tossed—and tossed—

It tossed—and tossed—
A little Brig I knew—o’ertook by Blast—
It spun—and spun—
And groped delirious, for Morn—

It slipped—and slipped—
As One that drunken—stepped—
Its white foot tripped—
Then dropped from sight—

Ah, Brig—Good Night
To Crew and You—
The Ocean’s Heart too smooth—too Blue—
To break for You—


    -F746 J723, Fascicle 36


I’ve noticed that when Dickinson throws the word “foot” or “feet” in a poem, you can find something extra going on with the metrical feet of the poem as well. The feet of the poem become the feet of its subject. The form and the content come together; the poem, in this way, becomes its subject. 

The most striking example of this is in the famous poem, “After great pain a formal feeling comes,” which begins with highly regular iambic pentameter. It starts very formally, as one does after great pain. But then just as it begins to talk about "mechanical feet going round and round" the meter breaks and the metrical feet become unsteady. It's as if both poet and poem have become one and in their grief, have lost their footing. By the end of the poem the feet regain their formal feeling and the last two lines are back to iambic pentameter.

You see the play with "foot" here too. The “white foot” of the brig “tripped.” This poem is notably uneven in its meter. It lists back and forth between dimeter, pentameter, trimeter and tetrameter. The pattern is: 2-5-2-4 / 2-3-2-2 / 2-2-4-2. The feet, in other words, trip all over the place in this poem. The meter is tossed and tossed, spun and spun. It slips and slips.

“The white foot tripped” is also notable in this poem as an image. A brig doesn’t have a foot, so what is this? Is the hull of the brig its foot? Is the foot of the brig the white of the wave as the ship goes down? The line reminds you of a person more than it does a ship, which makes you wonder about the nature of the tripping. 

Was the brig the victim of a circumstantial storm, or did it make a mistake (trip) causing its own demise? This question carries some import if you take the brig here as a stand-in for a person. The question of our own fate may even rest on the answer to this question. Through this one word, “tripped,” Dickinson raises the question: “Could this tragedy have been avoided?” The line, “As One that drunken—stepped—” leads one toward reading into this poem the possibility of a self-created storm. This drunk “groped delirious for morn.”

The meter of this poem never becomes regular, but the rhyme scheme does. It starts with typical Dickinsonian slant rhyme, Tossed/ blast, spun/ morn, slipped/ stepped. This, too, mirrors the wild tossing of the ship. But when we get to the ocean, which has calm depths, the rhyme matches almost too perfectly and you get, crew/ too/ blue/ too/ smooth, and then, driving the emphasis home, you get an exact end-rhyme of “You” and “You.” It is a notably heavy inundation of the "ooh" sound. It becomes “smooth” like the ocean. (It is also worth noting that Dickinson sets up this heavy repetition of rhyme in the first stanza with the word "knew.") 

There is a double-sidedness to this poem. There is the tragedy of a ship, or a person, who is caught up in a storm and then drunkenly plunges to its/their death. Then there is the detached ocean who is too blue (cold) and smooth (unruffled) to be concerned. Where does the poet stand in this equation? Is she identifying more with the lost crew or ocean here? That “Ah, Brig—Good Night” at the beginning of the last stanza can be read with a compassionate tone, or it could be read, if more aligned with the ocean, as having a nonchalant tone, as in, “Oh well, Brig, good night.”

This brings us back to the reason for the brig going down in the first place. If this “brig” is a metaphor for a drunk going down, then perhaps some distancing from the tragic figure is necessary. If you’ve ever had a loved one in the throes of addiction, you know what I’m talking about. Beyond an intervention, there is only so much you can do. Sometimes you have to distance yourself.

Still, there are indicators of compassion here, especially in the phrase “little brig I knew.” The fact that the brig was little (especially since brigs are usually quite large) and that the poet "knew" it, leads us to feel empathy. The poet is both warm and cold in this poem.

I think this poem is saying to the reader, “watch your step.”

       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

"A Storm" J.M.W.Turner

Notes:

1. This poem may have a wild uneven meter, but still, somehow, said out loud, its musical resolve feels perfect. It’s a wonder of poetic composition.

2. A few poems back in this same fascicle you have a calm body of water, a “crescent in the sea,” with a “maelstrom” overhead. Since the two poems were written about the same time, there is, perhaps, a connection, a kind of resolve to the cold depths of being, an escape from those hot and “wild nights,” at least for the time being. 

I'm reminded of the Kris Kristofferson line, "Love will make you crazy, but your soul will keep you sane." 

Sweet Mountains–Ye tell me no lie–

Sweet Mountains–Ye tell me no lie–
Never deny Me–Never fly–
Those same unvarying Eyes
Turn on Me–when I fail–or feign,
Or take the Royal names in vain–
Their far–slow–Violet Gaze–

My Strong Madonnas–Cherish still–
The Wayward Nun–beneath the hill–
Whose service–is to You–
Her latest Worship–When the Day
Fades from the Firmament away–
To lift her Brows on You–

    -F745, J722, Fascicle 36, 1863

Sweet Mountains–Ye tell me no lie–

Mountains, literal mountains, do not lie. They are the very symbols of the unsymbolic fact. They represent solid thingness, isness.

It took me awhile to get that aspect of this poem. I kept wanting to make religious metaphors out of those mountains, since that is what the poem seems to be doing. But this is a poem, I've come to realize, about doing the opposite; turning the abstract metaphor back into a mountain. In this way, this poem "turns" on the reader.  

Never deny Me–Never fly–

The second line of this poem looks, at first, like a plea: Please “Never deny me! Never fly!” and, because of the dash after "lie," which may be read as a period, you can read it this way. But, if we see this line as, instead, continuing from the first line, with a comma after "lie" instead of a period, then the poem is saying that the mountains don’t lie to you, nor do they deny you, and nor will they fly from you. There’s no reason to beg them not to, because they won’t! Dickinson is crazy clever, using that slippery syntax to turn the line from a plea to fact, which, it turns out, is a key to understanding the entire poem. 

The land itself, those large reminders of the earth below us, which are also rising above us, are unvarying. We can count on the earth.

Those same unvarying Eyes
Turn on Me–when I fail–or feign,
Or take the Royal names in vain–
Their far–slow–Violet Gaze–

It is ourselves who cannot be counted on. It is we who “feign” (lie), not the mountains. We deny. We fly. While we “fail or feign,” the mountains “turn on us” with those unvarying eyes, eyes with a “far–slow–Violet Gaze–” (It is we, really, who are turning, just as it is we who are lying. The mountains doen’t turn. They stay steady.) These eyes of the mountains are far-seeing, unlike ours. They are, unlike ours, slow. They take the long view you might say.

The gaze of the mountain is violet. Why? I can think of two reasons. One is that it is sunset. Of course it isn’t sunset for the mountains so much as it is for the viewer. The mountains are too far-seeing to be affected by days and seasons. It isn’t the end of the day for the mountain, but for us. In poetry-parlance the end of a day means the end of a life. We will see this idea confirmed in the next stanza.

But violet is also the color of a flower, and perhaps this mountain is covered with wild violets. The suggestion, at any rate, is there. These mountains are "sweet" like that.

The Sweet Mountains are reconfigured, in the first line of the second stanza, as Strong Madonnas. Sweet Mountains = Strong Madonnas. Notice how Dickinson subtly ties the two together with those initial consonant sounds. Madonna is old Italian for “My Lady.” The mountains aren’t masculine here, as one might expect, but feminine. (One thinks of breasts perhaps?)

Madonna is also a common epithet for Mary, mother of Jesus. Dickinson is having fun here, as she often does, with re-appropriating religious nomenclature. This is funny because she has just intimated to us in the first stanza that the mountains "turn on" her for taking the Royal Names in vain. But when we realize that the mountains are steady, undeniable and far seeing, we get that they are not a bit worried about our taking the “Royal Names in vain.” So here, in the second stanza, she is playing very loose with "Royal Names." (This is a very subtle joke and I didn’t get it until I was writing about it. The pleasures of the deep Dickinson dives are manifold.)

My Strong Madonnas–Cherish still–
The Wayward Nun–beneath the hill–

Again, that “Cherish still” seems like a plea, but once you realize that the pleas in the first stanza are, in fact, facts (mountains don’t fly), then you see that “Cherish still” is, also, a fact. These strong ladies, these mountains, cherish the wayward nun no matter what. And by this point in the poem, "wayward," has become tongue-in-cheek. The Poet is less a wayward nun, and more a mountain herself with a far slow gaze. 

“Whose service is to You”

“You,” here, means the mountains, but it also means the reader. She is rendering you a service, by helping you plant your feet on the solid ground, and by aligning your eyes, like she has done, with the far slow gaze of the mountains.

If you keep the double meaning of “You” in mind, then those last lines of this poem are quite moving,

Her latest Worship–When the Day
Fades from the Firmament away–
To lift her Brows on You–

Ah, Emily. How can we not love you?


    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

"Their far–slow–Violet Gaze–"

Note: One funny little part of this poem I didn't account for is the phrase "beneath the hill."

My Strong Madonnas–Cherish still–
The Wayward Nun–beneath the hill–
Whose service–is to You–

It is hard to read "beneath the hill" and not think of the wayward nun being buried in the ground. Since we are reading this poem posthumously, it is possible to read these lines as presaging the future: "My strong Madonnas still cherish the wayward nun who is (now) buried beneath the hill and whose service is to You." The poet is still giving service, in the Whitmanic sense, by bequeathing her body to the earth, although, humbly, she has become a hill instead of a mountain, but she's also still giving service to You, in her poetry, and in this very poem. Her future readers, then, are

"Her latest Worship–When the Day

Fades from the Firmament away–"

and she is lifting "her brows on You."

She dwelleth in the Ground—

She dwelleth in the Ground—
Where Daffodils—abide—
Her Maker—Her Metropolis—
The Universe—Her Maid—

To fetch Her Grace—and Hue—
And Fairness—and Renown—
The Firmament's—To Pluck Her—
And fetch Her Thee—be mine—

    -F744, J671, Fascicle 36, 1863


When I first read this poem I assumed from the first line that it was about a woman buried in the ground. But then as I read further and further into the poem this reading no longer made sense. I was stuck. I did some research and found the following helpful information from David Preest:

“We are saved from guessing the name of the flower in this riddle poem, because Fanny Norcross, Emily’s cousin, noted on her copy of the poem that Emily had sent it to her ‘with a crocus,’ and the crocus does indeed dwell and live her life in that ground where the daffodils are biding their time before they appear next. This explanation of the poem is derived from Judith Farr’s book, The Gardens of Emily Dickinson.’”

Ah, thank you David, Judith and Fanny.

Once you have this “key” to the poem, then it is quite lovely to think of the crocus, the first flower of spring, having a maker (and, by extension, all of creation) as its bustling metropolis and the universe as its maid, with the firmament (the sky) bringing the flower grace and hue (color) and fairness (beauty) and renown (fame). That's the job of the firmament and the universe, but the job of plucking the flower and giving it to her cousin Fanny, belongs to Emily.

To fetch Her Grace—and Hue—
And Fairness—and Renown—
(is the job of) The Firmament's—To Pluck Her—
And fetch Her (to) Thee—be mine—

If people can be compared to flowers (a comparison Dickinson has made in other poems,) then the wonderful idea of this poem can be transferred to the self. All of creation is our city, the universe is our maid, and the sky brings us grace and color and beauty and fame. This idea can be seen in a poem from earlier in this fascicle, with mother nature showing us infinite affection and infiniter care. 

It may be the work of the firmament and the universe to take care of us, but it’s the pleasure of the poet to pluck this grand conception of ourselves, put it in a poem, and give it to us.

    -/)dam Wade l)eGraff