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
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.
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.
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.
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
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 –
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.)
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:
I'm currently reading Pushkin's letters and just can't resist posting a few excerpts here. Just for fun, compare Dickinson's lofty perspective with Pushkin's down-to-earth approach.
ReplyDeleteTo PETER ANDREEVICH VYAZEMSKY
March, 1823. From Kishinev to Moscow.
Aristocratic prejudices are suitable for you but not for me—I look at a finished poem of mine as a cobbler looks at a pair of his boots: I sell for profit. The shop foreman judges my jack-boots as not up to the standard, he rips them up and ruins the piece of goods; I am the loser. I go and complain to the district policeman; all that is in the nature of things.
To Lev SERGEEVICH PUSHKIN Between January 12 and early February, 1824. From Odessa to Petersburg.
Mais pourquoi chantais-tu? To this question of Lamartine’s I answer: I have sung as a baker bakes, as a tailor sews, as Kozlov writes, as a physician kills—for money, for money, for money. This is what I am like-in the nakedness of my cynicism. Pletnev writes me that my Fountain of Bakhchisaray is already in everybody’s hands.’ I thank you, my friends, for your gracious solicitude for my fame! I especially thank [A. I.] Turgenev, my benefactor; I thank Voeykov, my high protector and illustrious friend! It remains to be seen whether even one printed copy will be bought by those who already have complete manuscripts. However, this is a trifle. A poet must not think about his livelihood, but he must, like Kornilovich, write with the hope of stealing a smile from the fair sex.
To PETER ANDREEVICH VYAZEMSKY March 8, 1824. From Odessa to Moscow.
I thank you with all my heart, dear European, for the unexpected epistle, or rather, parcel. I am beginning to respect our booksellers and to think that our trade is truly no worse than another. One thing troubles me; you have sold the whole edition! for 3,000 rubles, but how much did it cost you to print it? All the same you are donating to me, you shameless fellow! For Christ’s sake deduct what is due you from the remaining money, and send the rest here. It can’t be expected to grow. But with me it won’t gather any dust, though I am certainly no spendthrift. I shall pay old debts and sit down to my new poem. Considering that I do not belong to our writers of the eighteenth century, I write for myself, but I publish for money, and not in the slightest for the smiles of the fair sex.
To ALEXANDER IVANOVICH KAZNACHEEV The beginning (after the 2nd) of June, 1824. In Odessa. (Rough draft; in French)
I aspire only to independence—pardon me the word in consideration of the thing. By dint of courage and perseverance I shall end by enjoying it. I have already overcome my repugnance to writing and selling my verses for a living—the greatest step has been taken. Though I still write only under the capricious prompting of inspira-tion, I regard my verses, once written, as nothing but merchandise at so much per piece.
Complete Works of Alexander Pushkin: Letters : 1815-1826
Haha, that's "rich." Thank you for sharing that.
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