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 that is inherent in making money off of, or even taking credit for, work that is, inherently, concerning love. Poetry is, perhaps, by its nature, antithetical to financial profit.

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 intentions 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 fighting, go “white,” that is, pale, from death, and go back "unto the white creator."

What a intriguing way to state one's death, 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, but it's 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 profit, 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, or Christ, and, it 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, the 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. 

Incidentally Eddie did not pay me to plug his music here. Like Emily, he is a merchant of grace, but without reducing 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.”