Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning—

Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning—
Lightning—lets away
Power to perceive His Process
With Vitality.

Maimed—was I—yet not by Venture—
Stone of stolid Boy—
Nor a Sportsman's Peradventure—
Who mine Enemy?

Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—
All my Mansion torn—
Sun—withdrawn to Recognition—
Furthest shining—done—

Yet was not the foe—of any—
Not the smallest Bird
In the nearest Orchard dwelling
Be of Me—afraid.

Most—I love the Cause that slew Me.
Often as I die
Its beloved Recognition
Holds a Sun on Me—

Best—at Setting—as is Nature's—
Neither witnessed Rise
Till the infinite Aurora
In the other's eyes.


        -Fr841, J925, Sheet 3, 1864


Dear Susan,

I cried this morning after reading and trying to make sense of Fr841. It was shocking when I realized that the poem seemed to be an account of rape. Could this be the terror Emily referred to her in her letter to Higginson in 1862? "I had a terror since September, I could tell to none; and so I sing, as the boy does by the burying ground, because I am afraid."

It made me so sad. This poem is just heartbreaking when read in that light. And yet somehow it still carries beauty and redemption in the end. I did some research and came across a book called The Rape and Recovery of Emily Dickinson, which makes the further claim that it was her father. I scoffed. Emily loved and idolized her father, didn't she? There was an excerpt of the book and the more I read, from between my fingers, the more I wondered if the author could be right. If so, how terrible.

Anyway, not to be a downer, but I felt the need to commiserate.

Love, Adam

***

Dear Adam --

I returned last night from a short trip to visit friends in the Klamath mountains and do some hiking.

I only read a few emails because there was a host of them but of course I read yours. I want to thank you for thinking of me and sending the poem to me. It cut me as I read.

I wanted to write down my immediate thoughts to help me process it. So I did, and they follow. But Emily is so powerful that there is no 'making sense' of her work until it is lived with a while and allowed to penetrate (word choice purposeful) and percolate. But as your travel partner in her work I wanted to share my darting thoughts -- commiserating. There is such pain.

Last night:

Oh, this one hits hard. I've read it several times over and yes I cried out. I will be waiting to read your deliberations on it.

"Struck", "Maimed", and "Robbed" -- so harsh!

I then stumble through her loving the Cause that 'slew' her even as its 'beloved Recognition' chillingly holds a Sun on her ... Also unsettling here is the 'Often as I die' as if the Robbing, etc., is as regular as the Sun.
The end is... possibly, slightly possibly, a bit of dawning reassurance? She, like her slayer, is best at setting? A setting so deep that

Neither witnessed Rise
Till the infinite Aurora
In the other's eyes

More:

It's hard to know just what has happened -- by whom or for how long and, oh, just about everything in the poem. But as I write and re-read I'm thinking of Sue, of someone or even something (Poetry?) that so powerfully affects her that it is as if the 'Mansion' of her being is torn.

But how to process the horror of "Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—"? And the pathos of the 'Not the smallest Bird' stanza reinforcing the gentleness of the speaker, her harmlessness. She hasn't deserved or called forth any violence done her.

And yet ... the next stanza begins with 'Most': she most of all, more than anything said so far, loves what slew her (note past tense). Yet the slaying recurs. She notes that as she dies, and this now seems the climax of ecstatic sex, she has a deep recognition of the slayer who, in turn, holds "a Sun" on her as if the recognition is mutual.

This mirror/sun is best at "Setting" -- just as Nature's sun is (and why would that be?). Sunrise itself doesn't happen until both the speaker and the 'Cause' find the 'Infinite Aurora in each other's eyes. Maybe that is why the slayer and the slain are best at setting. That dawn of an infinite Aurora is more profound than the setting into night.

Complicating the poem is the change from first to third person in the last stanza.

Well, I've said to much without sufficient time to truly digest the poem and mull it about.

But it is shocking and powerful.

I'm reminded of an early commenter who on one poem and then a few afterwards (which ones I don't remember) said that the poems were clearly about sexual assault/rape. Each time I felt an agreement but was able to wiggle around it. Your comment about her father is even more shocking. I'm going to cogitate on that for a while.

Gotta to bed -- just got back from trip to Klamath Mts -- long and very beautiful drive home through steep mountains...

Love
Susan

ps: wonder what dreams will come...

***

Dear Susan,

Well, what dreams came?

Thank you for this. It helps. Yes, I do sometimes fail to give the poems enough time to "penetrate" before I write about them. 

This one may have "penetrated" too deeply, though, too quickly, without enough process to let the light in. I wrote about it right away, but probably won't keep much, if any, of what I put down. And it'll be a minute before I try again. Though I suppose I must. Like Emily I had to retreat. 

As you say, "how to process the horror of 'Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—?'  And the pathos of the 'Not the smallest Bird' stanza reinforcing the gentleness of the speaker, her harmlessness. She hasn't deserved or called forth any violence done her."  Your words made me wish you were writing this commentary and not I.

I can't read that word "intact" followed by the word "torn" without thinking of a deflowering. But it's very hard to read it as anything consensual. It sounds horrible. Struck is so violent. And to be left maimed?

That first stanza tells us that there was no time for "process." 

Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning—
Lightning—lets away
Power to perceive His Process
With Vitality.

The lightning has "not yet" struck. This strike was something darker than lightning, a strike of anti-lightning. At least "Not yet" implies hope of illumination when lightning does, eventually, strike.

That "lets away" is telling too. Lightning lets away, unlike whatever monster overtook the narrator. Taking by force doesn't allow the Vitality of Process. It kills the love in its tracks. This poem should be required reading for all dumb boys.

There are a couple things in this poem that seem to point, unfortunately, to the unthinkable. The first one is the riddle set forward in the second stanza.

Maimed—was I—yet not by Venture—
Stone of stolid Boy—
Nor a Sportsman's Peradventure—
Who mine Enemy?

 Subtle the way she switches that "not yet" in the first stanza to "yet not" here. Who is the enemy she asks after giving us a series of clues as to who it is not. It's not an emotionally-removed stolid boy who violated her with his "Stone." (Oh, the hint of anger in that doubtle ST sound, stemming from the first spit out "Struck" that onomatopoetically begins the poem.) It wasn't some hunter who was looking for sport. (She's spitting out the SP sound now, along with so many plosive Ps in the first two stanzas). So then who was it? If it wasn't a boy, it must've been an older man. And not a man who was undertaking a journey, on a venture, so...someone close to home? And not one doing it for the sport of the hunt, as per usual. So who does all of this point to?

Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—
All my Mansion torn—

The idea that she is intact to bandit, as in, connected to the bandit, and that it has torn her Mansion, as in The Dickinson Homestead, is troubling to me. There appears to be a double meaning to both "intact" and "mansion," the first pointing to herself, Mansion intact to bandit until it was torn, and the second pointing to the offender, to whom she was intact, and the Dickinson Mansion.

Sun—withdrawn to Recognition—
Furthest shining—done—

The light inside of the poet can no longer shine like it once did, at least not out into the world. This is one of the most heartbreaking lines in the poem for me, especially if Emily felt the compulsion to keep back her poems from "recognition" by the public because of the repercussions of this trauma. "...I could tell to none." 

Most—I love the Cause that slew Me.
Often as I die
Its beloved Recognition
Holds a Sun on Me—

The Cause. God. Burglar Banker Father. The Prime Mover. This is the perpetrator. And just as "often as" It kills the poet, she hungers for Its beloved recognition. It's such a tragic bind.

Best—at Setting—as is Nature's—
Neither witnessed Rise
Till the infinite Aurora
In the other's eyes.

I like your take on the slayer's cause being, like the Sun, best at setting because it is followed by the forgiveness of infinite auroras. (Not exactly what you said, but my take on it.) That makes sense to me. But also, if I am going to force myself to face it, there is the idea of the "setting" here of the Cause being best because one mellows with old-age, years later. It churns my stomach to write this. But it would be worse not to at least face the possibility, right? It's best to follow Emily's example. She takes us by the hand. I understood what you meant by wanting to wiggle around it though. I want to wiggle around it too. But Dickinson holds a sun on us, you might say. I also liked your way of putting it, that the setting is so deep that the sun can't rise again until the two witness the infinite aurora in each other's eyes. Lost in the auroras before sunrise. Is this Forgiveness or is it Escape?

I'm aware that this Father thing might well be a false trail. It's so easy with Dickinson to make clues fit a theory. And I really hope it isn't true. 

It does seem, as you pointed out, like the poem switches to the third person in this last stanza, "Neither (of them) witnessed Rise," but the syntax could also read in first person as, "Neither (of us) witnessed Rise." But hey, maybe a blending of first and third person is the point here? The two have to be understood as one for forgiveness to take place. Or rather forgiveness has to take place before the two can become one. 

A tremendous poem. It takes my breath away.

Though I still feel it, that sick feeling, I'm left less with shock and sadness than I was before in having processed through it again. The lightning has let the light in. The feeling I'm left with now is just an even deeper respect for Dickinson's bravery, her capacity to forgive, and admiration for those infinite auroras.

And now it's time for me to enter the same. Blessed sleep.

Good night, Susan.

P.S. But what about that white dress?

***

Dear Adam,

Dreams -- oddly, as you mention at the end of your email -- white dresses. Girls in white dresses (sang to the tune of 'Nights in white satin').

I thought of Austin right away but moved away from that. I think the idea of the Cause as God is very strong but then there's that last stanza– where speaker and Cause find the aurora, finally, in each other's eyes– that complicates the notion.

The penultimate stanza does, however, suggest God as Cause -- and especially if then it is God's Recognition, His Beloved Recognition, that shines like Sun on the battered recipient of His love. Reminds me of "He fumbles at your Soul" (F477) and also a bit of the 'White Heat' poem (F401). God is not an easy lover.

Anyway, enough of my meanderings. I do so much look forward to your commentary. This is a tough one... That "who is the Enemy" question seems key. The enemy must be grand and powerful -- capable of a Recognition that shines (and burns) like a sun. Someone that hurts but makes alive. That would be God, Father, and Sue.

But you bring a light yourself with "The lightning has let the light in. The feeling I'm left with now is just deeper respect for Dickinson's bravery, her capacity to forgive, and admiration for those infinite auroras."

Okay, direction to self. Stop. Stop!

Sleep well -
Susan

***

Dear Susan,

Good morning.

You wiggled around it. Bless you.

Dreams of white dresses. How about that!

Your bringing it back to the "key" question -"Who mine enemy?"- made me remember that the first time I read this I took that to mean that the poet had no enemy, which is the statement that she makes in stanza four: Yet was not the foe—of any— 

The poet had no enemies before the attack, but I think we are to understand that, remarkably, she had none afterward either.

Once the Sun has set and you see the infinite auroras in the other's eyes then there are no more enemies. The littlest bird in the orchard remains safe as can be. Dreams of white dresses...

What a perfect way for the poem, and life, to resolve. 

Thank you. I couldn't have gotten there without you.

With that in mind, Dear Susan, I have a daring proposition for you.

What if we post this dialogue as the commentary for the poem?

Hear me out. This poem, in particular, could use a woman's touch. A dialogue also exposes process, which, on one level, is what this poem is about. It's raw and illuminating, like a slow flash of lightning.

So what do you say, partner? I can hardly imagine it now without you.

Love,

 
Adam

***

Dear Adam,

I'm for the posting of it! The poem deserves it. I didn't find it in the indexes of my Dickinson books ... Go for it!

And top of the morning to you!

I gotta run -- full day of gardening today -- and a nice day for it, too.

Love,
Susan