Wild Nights – Wild Nights!

Wild Nights – Wild Nights!

Were I with thee

Wild Nights should be

Our luxury!

Futile – the Winds –

To a Heart in port –

Done with the Compass –

Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden –

Ah, the Sea!

Might I but moor – Tonight –

In Thee!

                                                            F269 (1861)  249

Dickinson begins the poem with a paradox: If she were with her lover, wild and stormy nights would be their oasis, their ‘luxury’ rather than the peril wild and stormy nights bring to sailors out at sea. Instead, their hearts would be “in port” and therefore in no danger from the “Futile” winds. The moored heart no longer has to chart its way through life, checking the compass, looking for love and safety.

Tossed by wind and waves, this ship longs for 
port: Ivan Alvazovsky, 1887

            Dickinson uses the sea here and elsewhere as a metaphor, a traditional one, for passion. The body caught on that sea might be prone to its wild winds. But the narrator doesn’t shy away from that as long as she can “moor – Tonight” in her lover. In that case, her time at sea is “Rowing in Eden – ” a lovely metaphor for making love. The line is followed by the ecstatic sigh, “Ah, the Sea!” No, Dickinson doesn’t shy from passion. What is longed for is the mooring, the coupling – even if only for one night!

            The narrator here implies that so far her passion has not been consummated. Dickinson uses the subjunctive case in the first stanza: if she were with her lover their wild nights should be their luxury. She uses it again in the last lines: Oh, if only she Might moor in “Thee.”  She longs to spend at least one night in the arms of her lover.

            Lilia Melani discusses how this poem caused consternation among those who first sorted through Dickinson’s poems after her death, deciding which would be published:

"When the 1891 edition of Dickinson's poems was being prepared, Colonel Higginson wrote to his co-editor Mrs. Todd,

'One poem only I dread a little to print--that wonderful 'Wild Nights,'--lest the malignant read into it more than that virgin recluse ever dreamed of putting there. Has Miss Lavinia [Emily Dickinson's sister] any shrinking about it? You will understand & pardon my solicitude. Yet what a loss to omit it! Indeed it is not to be omitted.'

His comments reflect both the sexual narrowness of his times and the Myth of Emily Dickinson, Virgin Recluse. "   

This is not Dickinson’s only poem celebrating sexual passion. She may have been virgin; she may have become reclusive. But she was never an ascetic.

Why – do they shut Me out of Heaven?

Why – do they shut Me out of Heaven? 
Did I sing – too loud?
But – I can say a little "minor"
Timid as a Bird!

Wouldn't the Angels try me –
Just – once – more –
Just – see – if I troubled them –
But don't – shut the door!

Oh, if I – were the Gentleman
In the "White Robe" –
And they – were the little Hand – that knocked –
Could – I – forbid?
                                                            F268 (1861)  248


Dickinson writes now and again of feeling left out and this poem is a rather blatant example of that. Here, writing as if making a diary entry, the poet refers to herself as a timid bird, a seeker of Heaven, and “the little Hand – that knocked” so patiently and hopefully at the door. Clearly someone has made her feel unwelcome – or at least that is the effect the narrator leaves.
            The feeling isn’t uncommon – or else I’m just a pessimist. I know I’ve occasionally realized that my company wasn’t desired as much as I might have allowed myself to think. Or I realize that I really did offend so and so the other night.
            The narrator writes here as if she has someone in particular is in mind--or a household. “Look, guys,” she begins, "the Angels would give me a second chance to prove I can be a quiet little mouse, and so would that nice Gentleman in the White Robe. Why can’t you?” The "they" in the first line might very well refer to the popular Austin/Sue Dickinson household. Loving both Austin and Sue, she might have had her feelings hurt about something. Sue was cooling to her. Perhaps Dickinson wasn't invited one night when a favorite bigwig was invited. And although it's doubtful that the poet sang too loud and that is why she is shut out of heaven, it has been recorded that in the days when Dickinson did attend parties at her brother's house, she was indeed lively and fun.
            The poem presages one written forty years later by Folger McKinsey (the Bentztown Bard) titled, you guessed it, “A Little Knock.” This poem is a real tear jerker about a father mourning his dead child and wishing he had answered her little knocking at his study door while she was still alive.
Here is the first stanza:

A little hand came knocking on my door:
"Let me turn in: I won't be bad no more!"
A little voice in tearful murmur plead—
Somehow I wish that I had long been dead
Ere from her knocking I could turn away,
Ere to her pleading I could answer nay,
Or yet refuse to ope and let her in,
Who had so little done of guile or sin.

I think I prefer Dickinson’s version.

Watch a performance of this poem set to music by Aaron Copland and sung by Ashley Putnam

Rearrange a "Wife's" Affection!

Rearrange a "Wife's" Affection!

When they dislocate my Brain!

Amputate my freckled Bosom!

Make me bearded like a man!

Blush, my spirit, in thy Fastness –

Blush, my unacknowledged clay –

Seven years of troth have taught thee

More than Wifehood ever may!

Love that never leaped its socket –

Trust entrenched in narrow pain –

Constancy thro' fire – awarded –

Anguish – bare of anodyne!

Burden – borne so far triumphant –

None suspect me of the crown,

For I wear the "Thorns" till Sunset –

Then – my Diadem put on.

Big my Secret but it's bandaged –

It will never get away

Till the Day its Weary Keeper

Leads it through the Grave to thee.

                                                            F267 (1861)  1737

Imagine going through life with a steadfast love for someone – your soul mate – but the love must be kept secret. That’s what this poem talks about.

            The first stanza is blunt, almost explosive. The poet begins from the point of view of a wife. Tamper with her love and affection? No way! They would have to first take out her brain and cut off her breasts. They’d have to make her a man to do it. Each of the four lines in the first stanza end in exclamation marks. Could Dickinson have been any more emphatic?

            The second stanza tackles her virginity. The poet compliments her spirit for steadfastness and gives a tip of the hat to her “unacknowledged clay” – her unfulfilled body. Both body and spirit can blush with wifely pride for seven years of pledged love have taught her more than if she had actually married.

Lover's Letter Box
George Baxter 1856

            She then becomes more detailed in praising her spirit and her clay. Her love never wavered. Her trust was “entrenched” and confined; there was pain involved. Dickinson may have been thinking of a man like Samuel Bowles or Charles Wadsworth as she wrote this: married men, both. That would account for the confines and also for the “fire” through which she remained constant. It might account as well for the “Anguish” she suffered without anything to soothe the pain and lessen the hurt.

            The last two stanzas, though, reveal the poet as not despairing because she believes in a marriage after death. Not a “Corpse Bride,” of course, but a true spiritual union. The poet has born the burden of her secret and difficult love in secret. No one suspects. She refers to her crown of thorns by way of reinforcing her suffering: she, like Jesus, wears a painful crown until death. Then she can put on her true, beautiful crown.

            This secret love is a big secret. No doubt there would be plenty of scandal and embarrassment should it be discovered. Consequently, the poet has “bandaged” it. The bandage covers and hides the secret. It also binds it to her until she dies and can lead it “through the Grave” to her waiting soulmate.

            The last line implies the soul mate might already be dead, that the poet has been keeping her love alive for seven years trusting in a heavenly consummation.  

            Part of the strength of the poem comes from the expulsive “b” sounds in the first six lines: Brain, Bosom, bearded, Blush, Blush. They underscore the intensity of the love. In later lines we see the love as Burdened, the secret as Big and Bandaged. All strong words.

What would I give to see his face?

What would I give to see his face?

I'd give – I'd give my life – of course –

But that is not enough!

Stop just a minute – let me think!

I'd give my biggest Bobolink!

That makes two – Him – and Life!

You know who "June" is –

I'd give her –

Roses a day from Zanzibar –

And Lily tubes – like Wells –

Bees – by the furlong –

Straits of Blue –

Navies of Butterflies – sailed thro' –

And dappled Cowslip Dells –

Then I have "shares" in Primrose "Banks" –

Daffodil Dowries – spicy "stocks" –

Dominions – broad as Dew –

Bags of Doubloons – adventurous Bees

Brought me – from firmamental seas –

And Purple – from Peru –

Now – have I bought it –

"Shylock"? Say!

Sign me the Bond!

"I vow to pay

To Her – who pledges this –

One hour – of her Sovereign's face"!

Ecstatic Contract!

Niggard Grace!

My Kingdom's worth of Bliss!

                                                            F266 (1861)  247

It was only in poem F258, I came to buy a smile – today – , that the poet was willing to trade diamonds and rubies for a small smile from her beloved. Here she extravagantly proposes to give not only her life but her “Bobolink.” And not just any old bobolink, either, but her biggest one. That makes two presents: the bobolink and her life. But the besotted poet doesn’t stop there: she is also prepared to give all the flowers, bees, and butterflies of June.

A good-sized Bobolink
(Chester Reed's The Bird Book, 1915)

            In listing the largesse included in her offering of June, Dickinson goes all out: She has her usual contingent of “B”s: in addition to Bobolink there are Bees (“by the furlong), Blue seas, and Butterflies. She then piles on with “D”s: Cowslip Dells, Daffodil Dowries, Dominions (“broad as Dew”), and gold Doubloons. These last seem to be stars, for “adventurous Bees” brought them to her from the sky – like gold stars.

            Again hearkening back to F258, she is confident that even the Jewish Shylock would find her terms irresistible. But she is teasing: Have I bought it now, Shylock? Well?? Then sign right here: “One hour”  of my beloved’s face. That alone is “Ecstatic Contract and her “Kingdom’s worth of Bliss.”

            The poem was sent to … who else? Samuel Bowles, the love of her life at this point. She’s playful and confident – a nice change from the whimpering spaniel of earlier love poetry.

            The diction and images are fun, but so are the rhymes: Bobolink and think; Dew and Peru, for example. 

It can't be "Summer"!

It can't be "Summer"!

That – got through!

It's early – yet – for "Spring"!

There's that long town of White – to cross –

Before the Blackbirds sing!

It can't be "Dying"!

It's too Rouge –

The Dead shall go in White –

So Sunset shuts my question down

With Cuffs of Chrysolite!

                                                            F265 (1861) 221

As puzzle poems go, this one is fairly straightforward. The question is implied in the first line: if “It” isn’t Summer – as summer has already been gotten through – then what is it? One thinks immediately of Fall, for Fall follows Summer. And indeed, we next learn that it’s too early to be Spring. Nor can it be Winter because there is a stretch of snow, “that long town of White” that has to be gotten across before the birds come back. Autumn it is, by process of elimination.

Yellow peridote, or Chrysolite in its
beautiful sunset gold colors

            The poem takes a slightly different direction in the following lines where Dickinson turns to human life. Of course, the seasons have always been metaphors for life: the spring of one’s youth, the summer of our maturity, the autumn of our transition into our winter years where we prepare for death.

            Just so, the season can’t be winter for there is too much “Rouge” – the blood is still coursing in our veins whereas the Dead are bloodless and pale as snow. Again, we are left with the answer – Fall, or Autumn. New England is famous for its fall colors: red, yellow, gold, and orange. These, including the “Rouge,” are the sunset colors that Dickinson refers to in so many of her poems.

            The last two lines erase all doubt. Sunset, with its festive chrysolite cuffs, is so autumnal in its colors that it might as well spell out the answer across the sky. Now today we think of chrysolite as greenish, the more common color of peridote, but some peridote is indeed yellow. The word "chrysolite" itself comes from the Greek and means “yellow stone.”  And so Dickinson means for us to envision the sunset sky with its vivid rouge center that fades out to yellow-gold at the periphery.

            It’s typical (and pretty wonderful) of Dickinson to never mention what she is referring to by name. Spring is when the blackbirds sing. Winter is a town of White, a place of the dead dressed in white.

Forever at His side to walk –

Forever at His side to walk –

The smaller of the two!

Brain of His Brain –

Blood of His Blood –

Two lives – One Being – now –

Forever of His fate to taste –

If grief – the largest part –

If joy – to put my piece away

For that beloved Heart –

All life – to know each other

Whom we can never learn –

And bye and bye – a Change –

Called Heaven –

Rapt neighborhoods of men –

Just finding out – what puzzled us –

Without the lexicon!

                                                            F264 (1861)  246

I doubt if Dickinson
really wanted to be the
humble little woman

Dickinson shows here that despite her remarkably original mind she was a traditional sort of a girl when it came to the man / woman relationship. The poem’s narrator begins by imagining herself and her beloved walking through life fused by love and commitment into “One Being.” Just as a couple vows at marriage to stick together for better or worse, the narrator wants to be “Forever” part of her man’s life whether in “grief” or “joy.”

            Life, here, is presented as a meal. The narrator wants to “taste” her beloved’s fate as if sharing a lifelong dinner. When grief is served up, she will eat most of the dish; if it is joy on the plate, however, she will give her portion to “that beloved Heart.”

            The last stanza looks forward to a more perfect union after death. It begins with the assumption that we can never truly know another person on earth. In fact, we have to depend on a “lexicon” – our partner’s words and explanations of what he or she means or intends. We go through life trying understand our loved ones, but our tools are insufficient. Despite our best efforts we never really know them. But after death there is “a Change – / Called Heaven.” And so it is after death, in a heavenly marriage, that the  narrator and her beloved will finally understand each other – “Without the lexicon!”

            Although Dickinson was doubtless sincere in this portrayal of a woman’s love, I doubt that she herself would have enjoyed being the “smaller” of the two lovers and the one who has to forfeit joy but take on extra grief. 

Just so – Christ – raps –

Just so – Christ – raps –

He – doesn't weary –

First – at the Knocker –

And then – at the Bell –

Then – on Divinest tiptoe standing –

Might He but spy the hiding soul!

When He – retires –

Chilled – or weary –

It will be ample time for me –

Patient – upon the steps – until then –

Heart – I am knocking low

At thee!

                                                            F263 (1861) 317

The poem begins with a string of accented syllables – spondees – that mimic the sound of Christ rapping quietly at the door. We can hear the rhythm: tap…tap…tap…tap. This noise goes on for some time, for Jesus “doesn’t weary.” And a good thing! If Jesus can save your soul from damnation we would hope he wouldn’t give up easily! He starts, politely, at the knocker than moves to the louder and more insistent doorbell. When there is still no answer, he stands on his divine toes to peer in through the small window in the door to “spy the hiding soul.” Don’t you hate it when unwanted guests do that? And there you are slinking by the kitchen door waiting for them to go away.

            Jesus does finally give up. He gets “Chilled – or weary.” That’s a direct contradiction to the first stanza where “He – doesn’t weary,” but some folks are just hard cases. Best to move on. After all, no one will be saved against their will. Ah, but waiting in the bushes has been the patient narrator of the poem. Her patience rewarded, she takes her turn at the door. The main difference between her and the departing Christ is that unlike him, she is knocking at her beloved’s heart. In the last two lines she calls out to it: “Heart – I am knocking low [softly] / At thee!” Her patient persistence is contrasted to Christ’s: she, one infers, loves the occupant of the house more than Jesus. And unlike him, she is not going to go spying.

            The image is very pictorial. Many people in Christian lands have seen various pictures of Jesus knocking at the door. One of the earliest was painted by William Holman Hunt in 1851 and so Dickinson may well have seen it. Judith Farr makes this point in The Passion of Emily Dickinson, discussing the intense interest and controversy surrounding this painting when it was shown in New York and Boston in 1857. She adds that this poem “was probably written for Sue (Dickinson's beloved best friend [for years, though not always] and sister-in-law), to whom it was addressed and sent.”

Ah, Moon – and Star!

Ah, Moon – and Star!

You are very far –

But – were no one farther than you –

Do you think I'd stop for a firmament –

Or a cubit – or so?

I could borrow a Bonnet – of the Lark –

And a Chamois' Silver Boot –

And a stirrup of an Antelope –

And leap to you – tonight!

But – Moon – and Star –

Though you're very far –

There is one – farther than you –

He – is more than a firmament – from Me –

So I cannot go!

                                                            F262 (1861)  240

Here a star-gazing lover contemplates the great gulf between herself and her beloved. She looks at the moon and perhaps Venus, the Evening Star (true, it’s a planet not a star, but it looks like a bright star), and thinks that she could sooner reach them than the man she loves. If he were closer, say as close as the moon, than she could leap and fly through the sky – the “firmament” – like a lark, or chamois, or antelope to reach his side. Alas, he is even more distant, and the poet realizes she can never bridge that gulf.

photo of Moon and Venus by Vinish K. Saini

            Dickinson begins with a childlike tone, sighing to a personified moon and star in a simple rhyme. She daydreams about leaping out in space. Like a superhero she would take on the lark’s aerodynamic crest, the nimble “Silver Boot” of the alpine chamois, and the fleetness of the antelope. She could do it “tonight!”

            But then, again in childish tone and rhyme, she tells moon and star that since the one she loves is even “farther than you,” she “cannot go!” Although the tone is somewhat playful here, the poet is wistful about her difficult relationship. She wouldn’t let a “firmament” stop her, but physical distance does not seem to be the problem.  Her lover may be indifferent or simply unavailable.

I held a Jewel in my fingers –

I held a Jewel in my fingers –

And went to sleep –

The day was warm, and winds were prosy –

I said "'Twill keep" –

I woke – and chid my honest fingers,

The Gem was gone –

And now, an Amethyst remembrance

Is all I own –

                                                            F261 (1861)

This poem of love lost recounts an experience so very familiar to most readers. We have a beloved as precious to us as a jewel. But in the summer of love – its warm days and mild winds, calm and sweet as if it would continue forever – we grow complacent. Alas, when we wake the beloved has slipped away. Only memories remain.

"Woman leaning on a chair:
Frederico Zandomeneghi

            The poet, however, doesn’t really blame herself: the fingers that loosened their hold on the “Gem” were “honest.” It was not their fault; rather, it was a restless lover. The tone is not bitter or heartbroken, however, but nostalgic. A Gem that must be gripped tight, for whose possession sleep is not permitted, is not much of a treasure, after all. We leave the poem with a sense that the “Amethyst remembrance” is not such a bad keepsake after all.

In keeping with its gentle tone, the poem has a regular, song-like construction. In each of the two stanzas the first and third lines are in iambic tetrameter, while the second and fourth are iambic dimeter. The evenness of the lines contributes to the drowsy, nostalgic feel. The prevalence of “w” sounds in the third line also contributes: “The day was warm, and winds were prosy.” The end rhymes of “sleep” and “keep” further lull the senses. It is not an exciting poem but one that is carefully crafted and that rings true. 

I'm Nobody! Who are you?

I'm Nobody! Who are you?

Are you – Nobody – too?

Then there's a pair of us!

Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!

How public – like a Frog – 

To tell one's name – the livelong June – 

To an admiring Bog!

                                                            F260 (1861)  288

This is one of Dickinson’s most widely read poems – although it is far from her best. She may have been parodying one or more flowery poets of her day, one of whom went on at great length about heaven and earth and kings and winds and how he was nobody, thankfully, rather than “somebody.” Dickinson takes such pap and tells the story plainly.

            For me the best line is “How public – like a Frog – ”; sometimes when I hear someone puffing themselves up I think of the line and I picture the speaker croaking to “an admiring Bog.”

            The poem reflects a bit of Dickinson’s penchant for privacy. She would find it “dreary” to be an important personage. We also see a bit of her playfulness. She begins the poem by addressing some casual companion, but rather than ask for an exchange of names she just goes for the Nobody/Somebody divide. She is delighted to find her companion is, like herself, a “Nobody.” Of course, this is a bit disingenuous. As the daughter of one of Amherst’s most prominent families, Emily Dickinson was far from a nobody.

A Clock stopped –

A Clock stopped – 

Not the Mantel's – 

Geneva's farthest skill

Can't put the puppet bowing – 

That just now dangled still – 

An awe came on the Trinket!

The Figures hunched, with pain – 

Then quivered out of Decimals – 

Into Degreeless Noon – 

It will not stir for Doctors – 

This Pendulum of snow – 

This Shopman importunes it – 

While cool – concernless No – 

Nods from the Gilded pointers – 

Nods from the Seconds slim – 

Decades of Arrogance between

The Dial life – 

And Him –

                                                            F259 (1861)  287

The first line with its simple clipped syllables echoes the stopping of a clock, it’s tic toc over. We know that this particular timepiece is the cuckoo clock on the wall: it’s not the mantel clock and it has figures that once moved. We also know the clock is irreparably broken for even the best clock makers in the world, at that time in Switzerland, “Can’t put the puppet” back to work

            We know that the clock died on the hour as the figures had come out: the puppet was bowing until it suddenly stopped, dangling motionless. The other “Figures” in the clock seemed “hunched, with pain,” and overall, a sense of dread and wonder came over the “Trinket.”

            The following lines through the end of the poem make it clear that that Dickinson is using the lively cuckoo clock as a metaphor for life in that its sudden ‘death’ represents our own. In later poems (and in several earlier ones), Dickinson describes the hush and awe that come over the room as a person crosses the boundary between life and death. There is the pain, but then they go … somewhere. Here, it is into “Degreeless Noon,” the apex of the clock’s day where the two hands meet together at 12, no longer offering any degree of separation. Death, the poet implies, is a completion. We quiver out of our “Decimals” – the numbers and events of daily life – into an eternal, unmoving “Noon.”

            Just as in a deathbed scene where the doctor and loved ones do their best to recall the dying, neither mechanic nor shopkeeper can bring life back to the clock. Instead, the gold-gilded pointers, or hands, answer a “cool – concernless No.” Interestingly, this “No” “nods” from the pointers. The nod is a positive gesture but in this case it coolly signals all bystanders that their efforts are useless. The stopped clock has no more concerns.

            The final three lines add the Dickinsonian twist, the sharply drawn lines that almost cause an intake of breath as the extended metaphor is clinched. We have the “Gilded pointers” and the “Seconds slim” sketching out the clock face. We see the familiar hour hand, the more slender minute hand, and the even thinner second hand. But the hours, minutes, and seconds they denote are suddenly expanded into “Decades” to reflect a normal human life span. Our decades of bowing and prancing about to the tune of time reflects our “Arrogance” about life. But at the end, we meet “Him” – the great Clockmaker. The lines have an aura of mystery and more than a hint of dread.

            Dickinson came after the great Deists who founded the United States, men such as Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson who thought of the cosmos as clockworks and the creating deity as clockmaker. The metaphor, then, would have been a familiar one to her and her countrymen, but she adds her own vivid and quixotic flavour. The “quivered out of Decimals – / Into Degreeless Noon” as well as the “cool – concernless No” are pure and wonderful Dickinson.

I came to buy a smile – today –

I came to buy a smile – today – 

But just a single smile – 

The smallest one upon your face

Will suit me just as well – 

The one that no one else would miss

It shone so very small – 

I'm pleading at the "counter" – sir – 

Could you afford to sell – 

I've Diamonds – on my fingers!

You know what Diamonds are!

I've Rubies – like the Evening Blood – 

And Topaz – like the star!

'Twould be "a Bargain" for a Jew!

Say? May I have it – Sir?

                                                            F258 (1861) 223

This poem, sent to Samuel Bowles, presents the narrator as a shopper and the beloved as shopkeeper. She has come to his store bejewelled and ready to spend her precious gems on one of his smiles. She is humble – she only wants a “single smile” and the smallest one at that. It can’t be important to him as “no one else would miss” it. The implication, though, is that what the narrator really wants is a private, secret smile; one that shines, and shines “so very small” that others don’t notice it. We all know those secret little expressions.

This picture of Bowles about
the time Dickinson met him
shows a man in need of
a smile -- even a small one!

            The last two lines of the first stanza are of particular interest: she is standing “at the ‘counter,’” she calls her beloved “sir” as fitting for a customer to a respected merchant, and she pleads with him to sell – but asks him if he can “afford” to sell this little smile. The problem with Samuel Bowles was that he was married. And so the question is very pertinent: Could he really afford secret smiles for a single woman, particularly one who kept sending him letters and poems? Dickinson also sent his wife Mary poems and letters, but I suspect the couple both knew the way the wind was blowing.

            The first stanza is full of “s” sounds: smile, single, smile, smallest face, suit, else, miss, shone, small, sir, sell. The effect is sinuous, suggestive of snakes – and so of the serpent’s temptations to sin in the Garden of Eden. The stanza is soft, teasing, seductively wheedling.

            The second stanza is quite different. The humble shopper pleading for just a tiny smile turns out to have diamonds. Not just one diamond, but diamonds plural. Diamonds in those days (as today) came from Brazil, South Africa, Australia, and India. They hadn’t yet been adopted as the ‘must have’ engagement and wedding ring stone, but with increased trade from the growing English empire, the gem was becoming popular with the upper class – not just royalty.

            She is also sporting rubies and topaz – two other precious stones worth a small fortune if of any quality. Her rubies are of good quality, red as the “Evening Blood” of sunset spreading across the sky. Her topaz shines as clear and gold as a star.

            The narrator is willing to trade all of these riches for the smallest smile. This, she points out would be “’a Bargain’ for a Jew!” This sounds a bit derogatory and it is in the sense that because of their role in finance and jewels, many people, Gentiles, thought Jews were money-centered. Background: Jews were forced out of many locations and many occupations (probably because their resistance to intermarriage and mingling with other cultures created suspicion, while their successes generated resentment) they became moneylenders – financiers across northern Africa, the Mideast, and Europe. Because diamonds and other precious stones were used for collateral for loans, Jewish communities developed a specialty in diamond assessment that eventually became dominance in global diamond markets. The assumption in this poem is that a knowledgeable Jew would find her offer of a trade a very favourable one for the shopkeeper!

            Unlike the soft sibilance of the first stanza, the second stanza is all hard consonants – like the jewels it lists: Diamonds, fingers, rubies, blood, Topaz, Bargain. The last line goes back to the wheedling “s” sounds of “Say” and “Sir.”

            The poem uses slant rhymes throughout. The first stanza has smile, well, small, and sell; as well as face and miss. The second stanza has are, star, and Sir. Both “Blood” and “Jew” end their lines and are without rhymes. This strengthens the already strong words, the effect being to underscore the value of the deal. The result is that along with the playful, teasing tone of the poem there is an undertone of urgency. Dickinson’s shopper really really needs that smile!

Blog on Vacation until June 9 - Ciao!

I've known a Heaven, like a Tent –

I've known a Heaven, like a Tent – 

To wrap its shining Yards – 

Pluck up its stakes, and disappear – 

Without the sound of Boards

Or Rip of Nail – Or Carpenter – 

But just the miles of Stare – 

That signalize a Show's Retreat – 

In North America – 

No Trace – no Figment of the Thing

That dazzled, Yesterday,

No Ring – no Marvel – 

Men, and Feats – 

Dissolved as utterly – 

As Bird's far Navigation

Discloses just a Hue – 

A plash of Oars, a Gaiety – 

Then swallowed up, of View.

                                                            F257 (1861)  243

Some people, and I suspect Emily Dickinson is one of them, can find a little bit of heaven in a sunset, a soiree, a garden, or a dusty path through a meadow. In this poem she compares the lush ephemerality of these brief heavens to a circus. Amherst would no doubt have seen a few traveling circuses and the shows would have been great attractions. The circus would arrive with a parade: beautifully outfitted prancing horses, carriages pulling caged lions and tigers, acrobats marching and twirling, and elephants plodding along with their tenders. The tents would go up overnight and then the magic would begin – only to be taken down and removed a day or two later when the circus moved on.

Everyone watches as the circus leaves town

            The poet’s heaven came and went like that except that it was more silent. There was no sound of hammers or all the hustle and bustle of packing up and leaving. Instead, the Heaven wrapped “its shining Yards,” plucked itself up by the stakes, and disappeared. It left “No Trace – no Figment” of what was so dazzling the day before. The acrobats and feats of courage and skill were gone.

            The poet likens the absence of the divine circus to “miles of Stare” – a landscape you might stare across for miles without seeing the hoped-for thing. The phrase implies longing and wondering, “stare” being more intense than “gaze.” This stare might characterize the children staring after the circus train and carriages disappearing from sight – its “Retreat.” The children might have the same sense of awe and loss as the poet searching the horizon for the lost heaven.

            In the second stanza Dickinson frames the absence as the last glimpse of bird in flight as it is “swallowed up” in the distance. She characterizes this as a dissolving: the bird is first visible and then begins to fade against the clouds and sky as it flies away. Finally it is just a hint of color, a slight indication of movement. She describes this as the “plash of Oars” as if the bird were rowing through the sky. She will use similar imagery in 1862 in the familiar poem, “A Bird, came down the Walk.” In this poem the narrator feeds the bird a crumb and then -

… he unrolled his feathers,

And rowed him softer Home – 

Than Oars divide the Ocean,

Too silver for a seam,

Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon,

Leap, plashless, as they swim.  

The last fleeting sense of the bird before it dissolves from view is “a Gaiety.” I picture the flowing, bounding flight of a song sparrow – gay as can be! Once the bird is gone, all that remains is the “View.”

            Dickinson’s treatment of absence as “miles of Stare” and of as a swallowing “View” is slightly disturbing. It is as if our eyes are looking into some vastness that is not empty as it appears but somehow full of potential presence. We see something marvelous or delightful. It disappears without a sound but the air has changed; something still lingers from the circus disappearing in the horizon, the birds fading against the sky. A space has been made that is now empty, much as the empty corner still contains something of the easy chair that once sat so comfortably there.