Bereaved of all, I went abroad —

Bereaved of all, I went abroad —
No less bereaved was I
Upon a New Peninsula —
The Grave preceded me —

Obtained my Lodgings, ere myself —
And when I sought my Bed —
The Grave it was reposed upon
The Pillow for my Head —

I waked to find it first awake —
I rose — It followed me —
I tried to drop it in the Crowd —
To lose it in the Sea —

In Cups of artificial Drowse
To steep its shape away —
The Grave — was finished — but the Spade
Remained in Memory —


        -Fr885, J784, fascicle 39, 1864


The poet is utterly bereft. “Bereaved of all.” 

“All” here may mean, possibly, the loss of a great love. Sometimes you feel all meaning drain from you when a relationship ends. Though there are other things that can leave one feeling completely bereft, like trauma. 

Ultimately, we don’t know what may have left the poet bereft. Once again Dickinson brings us into her overwhelming pain by leaving the "why" unanswered and thus letting us entertain our own reasons.

Let’s look for a moment at the little word “of” in the first line. Chris Stroffolino wrote recently about the “quasi-tragic pathos” in the word “of.” That's an insightful read of that word. Chris was writing about Clark Coolidge's poem "Polaroid," but one might say the same of Dickinson’s “of” here in this first line. Bereft of all.

Chris Stroffolino's version of Clark Coolidge's "Polaroid."

Chris wrote an essay for Prowling Bee: Fr864

So what can one possibly do to get away from all that you are bereft of. Well, you can try travelling, but the poet doesn't think that will work in her case. That's how bereft she feels. The only thing to look forward to, it would seem, is death.

This is dramatic. There is a part of me that wants to say, come on Emily, give it a try. Go abroad. Go to Tuscany or Santiago and then tell me you are feeling bereft of all. But I don't want to diminish the level of anguish here.

Traveling might not have worked for Emily. She was a homebody. That’s where I think the tragedy of this poem secretly lies. Dickinson loved her home, but her home had become a kind of grave due to some tragedy, one that is a mystery to us. (We have our theories). Home is gone for good, and no other will do.

You see this homeless theme throughout Dickinson’s oeuvre, and in particular in this fascicle. In Fr881, for instance, the poet writes, "To wander now is my abode."

Traveling doesn't work, and neither does being social:

I tried to drop it in the Crowd —

 Even drugs and alcohol don't help:

I tried...in Cups of artificial Drowse
To steep its shape away —

This is sorrow, it would seem, beyond remedy.

The most chilling part of this poem is the end. The poet, who can now do nothing else but lay down in her grave, still remembers the spade that dug it. What, or who, dug the grave? What made the poet lose herself? It must have been devastating. whether caused by a lover or an assailant. 

You want the poet to remember the spade so she can dig herself out. But maybe the value of this poem is just to feel the depths of an unnecessary and overwhelming loss.

This death-wish is counteracted, somewhat, in the vividness of feeling, and in the beauty of the language. 

       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff