Truth — is as old as God —

Truth — is as old as God —
His Twin identity
And will endure as long as He
A Co-Eternity —

And perish on the Day
Himself is borne away
From Mansion of the Universe
A lifeless Deity.


    -Fr795, J836, sheet 23, 1854


Truth equals God, and always will. What does that mean? Truth equals God is a kind of tautology that doesn’t tell us much about either one. The truth is God. God is the truth. It doesn’t sound to me like something Dickinson would write.

“Truth” is usually more complicated in Dickinson poems. “Tell the truth but tell it slant,” she writes in a later poem. Is there anything slant in this poem? Perhaps. On one hand you could read the poem as saying that Truth won’t perish until God does. One presumes that this means it will last forever, “Co-eternities.” On the other hand the poem ends with the dark image of a Lifeless Deity. That’s the feeling you are left with, the possibility of a Godless universe.

This poem was attached to a letter to Dr. Josiah Holland, a pious man, and the father of one of Emily’s best friends, Elizabeth Holland. In an earlier letter to the Hollands, we have a hint of Emily’s doubts.

In the letter Emily speaks of having a dream she was with the Hollands and they were picking roses in a lovely garden. But, “though we gathered with all our might, the basket was never full.” There is a sense in this dream of working hard to gather beauty, but never, somehow, being completely fulfilled by this effort.

Then the letter states the following:

“The minister to-day, not our own minister, preached about death and judgment, and what would become of those, meaning Austin and me, who behaved improperly - and somehow the sermon scared me, and father and Vinnie looked very solemn as if the whole was true, and I would not for worlds have them know that I troubled me, but I longed to come to you, and tell you all about it, and learn how to be better. He preached such an awful sermon though, that I didn't much think I should ever see you again until Judgment Day, and then you would not speak to me, according to his story. The subject of perdition seemed to please him, somehow. It seems very solemn to me.”

But perhaps this poem was meant in a less complicated, more straightforward, way, befitting its recipient. We find out from Dr. Holland’s granddaughter, Theodora Van Wagenen Ward, that there was a generational shift in faith experience with her grandfather. She states that Dr. Holland “loved God with the same fervor that his ancestors feared Him.” So perhaps he exemplified that kind of love for Emily.

          -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

P.S. I love the way the final word of this poem, Deity, takes up both the "ee" sound of the rhymes in the first stanza and the "ay" sound of the rhymes of the second stanza. 

From Us She wandered now a Year,

From Us She wandered now a Year,
Her tarrying, unknown,
If Wilderness prevent her feet
Or that Ethereal Zone

No eye hath seen and lived
We ignorant must be—
We only know what time of Year
We took the Mystery.


     -Fr794, J890, sheet 60, early 1864


In the Franklin ordering of the poems we have now left the fascicles and moved on to some poems that were written on separate sheets of paper and were believed by Franklin to have been written in early 1864. I would've preferred to have moved onto the next fascicle as I believe Dickinson put her "keeper" poems into fascicles, which she arranged with a certain sense of order. But as this blog has, from the beginning, followed the Franklin ordering of the poems, with the project of attempting to include them all, we will tackle several before we get onto the next fascicle.

This one feels slighter than usual, but presuming that all of Dickinson's poems were written with purpose in mind, let's do our best to get a sense of what she is doing here.

Here we have a woman who "From Us...wandered" a year ago. I presume this means that she died. But it's possible that this woman merely disappeared and wandered off. It says we don't know whether the "Wilderness" prevented her feet from going forward, or it was an "Ethereal Zone."

This poem centers around the idea that no one knows what comes after death. It is a mystery. "We only know what time of Year." Maybe that's all this poem is doing, just stating that no one knows. This is, in itself, bold in a time when the majority of people professed faith in an afterlife.

What is the difference, then, between death as a Wilderness or death as an Ethereal Zone?

Both the Wilderness and an Ethereal Zone give us a sense of the unknown, though one is earthly, and one is of the ether, beyond the earth. Ethereal, according to the Dickinson Lexicon, means: Unearthly; supernatural; mystical; mysterious; unexplainable; immortal; beyond death.

So the question here seems to rest on whether when we die we simply return to the earth or transcend to some unknown zone beyond.

I think either possibility, earth or ether, is made more beautiful by Dickinson's word choices of Wilderness and Ethereal Zone.

The last line of this poem "We took the Mystery" is a pretty remarkable way of looking at death. When someone dies all we can do is take the Mystery.

The poem is a striking example of Keats' idea of Negative Capability, which he defines as "capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.”


      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

The Monk by the Sea by Caspar David Friedrich, 1808

Biographical note: "Thomas Johnson suggests that the dead woman may be Lamira Norcross, the young wife of Emily’s mother’s youngest brother. If so, the ‘us’ of the poem may include Emily’s cousins, Louise and Frances Norcross, nieces of Lamira Norcross." -David Preest

My Soul—accused me—And I quailed—

My Soul—accused me—And I quailed—
As Tongues of Diamond had reviled
All else accused me—and I smiled—
My Soul—that Morning—was My friend—

Her favor—is the best Disdain
Toward Artifice of Time—or Men—
But Her Disdain—'twere lighter bear
A finger of Enamelled Fire—

     -Fr793, J753, fascicle 37

Emily Dickinson was her own best critic. Her "Soul" cut her with its "Tongues of Diamond," to the point that she "quailed," and because it cut so deep, no one else's accusations could touch her. She just smiles at anyone else's censure. It is only her own exacting Soul that she is concerned with. It is her "friend," she says. 

And why was it her friend? I suspect it was because it kept her grounded to what is Real, to what is beyond the temporal, beyond the artificial relationship, beyond "Artifice of Time—or Men—" 

And what is Real? I think for Dickinson the Real might be defined as true intimacy in the eternal moment. As she says in a later a poem, all of Dominion is reduced to nothing in comparison to the heart's smallest extent.

This is no small part of why we turn to Dickinson. For true love she suffered no fools, and not least of which herself. 

"Tongue of Diamond" is a great phrase because it conjures up "hard," and "cutting," but also, "precious."  

Why did the poet's Soul accuse her "that morning?" Is Dickinson speaking of a particular incident here, or is "morning" meant to invoke youth? Or is it "morning" because her Soul is waking her up? 

The second stanza begins with a profound idea. "Her favor—is the best Disdain/ Toward Artifice of Time—or Men—" The favor of your Soul is, in itself, so pleasing that you will naturally want to disdain the artificial. The Soul's favor is positive reinforcement.

On the flipside, if you don't disdain the artificial, then you have negative reinforcement to contend with and it would be easier ("lighter") to bear a "finger of Enamelled Fire." Here is another fantastically rich image. A finger suggests someone pointing in accusation. "Enamelled Fire" is a striking oxymoron. Fire is all consuming, but enamel is decorative and even protective. So here Dickinson is combining the destructive and the ornamental, fusing burning pain with surface perfection. 

Be quiet and listen to your Soul. Dickinson makes it seem like the easy and obvious choice here, but as we all know, it is anything but. Still, a poem like this, paid close attention to, brings us a little closer to the Soul's favor. And what more could we ask for?

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Note: 

1. It is worth thinking about this poem in relation to the famous one about the Soul selecting Her Own Society. For an excellent discussion of that poem see Prowling Bee Fr409. 

2. This is the last poem of Fascicle 37. The first poem in the fascicle, Fr773, also refers to a "friend," though the "friend" of that poem is a Him rather than a Her. You would expect a word like "friend" to be capitalized in a Dickinson poem, but it is lower case in both poems. It is perhaps significant that this fascicle is book-ended by two friends, a shapeless He who visits the poet, and a She, who is her very Soul. 

So the Eyes accost—and sunder

So the Eyes accost—and sunder
In an Audience—
Stamped—occasionally—forever—
So may Countenance

Entertain—without addressing
Countenance of One
In a Neighboring Horizon—
Gone—as soon as known—


       -Fr792, J752, Fascicle 37, 1863


That opening line is so curt and to the point. There is a violent thrust to the sound of that word "accost," and a feeling of finality with that word "sunder."

These eyes accost the narrator and sunder her from what? From herself? From society? From reality? From happiness?

And whose eyes are these that have accosted the narrator? We are left to wonder. It is part of the mystery.

These eyes, though, we are told, accost and sunder "in an audience." Why is there an audience? It's as if it is a play we are witnessing. And who is in this audience? Us? We are witnessing the Witnessing.

Perhaps this intense gaze is just the glance of a would-be lover who is passing by in a crowd. But there is also a sense of a divine Countenance that the poet is facing. I get this idea from the sense of deity that the word "Countenance" connotes, but also from two poems mentioned earlier in this fascicle, Fr773, and Fr783. Both of these poems are also about a mysterious and divine visitation. If you read the three together, the mystery just deepens.

This visitation, which may be earthly in origin, but begins to seem almost supernatural, had a profound effect on the poet, imbuing in her a sense of Eternity:

Stamped—occasionally—forever—

Imagine the gaze that must have stopped Emily Dickinson in her tracks and stamped forever upon her. She turns the gaze here into mythic territory, into divine Countenance itself, conflating the human realm with the Heavenly. It's signature Dickinson. In many of her poems the human and divine appear to be inextricable.

Stamped "occasionally." This might mean that this kind of thing happens "occasionally," ever so often, once in a while. But I think here it more likely means, "upon a single occasion." It happened upon one occasion. The occasion becomes eternal when the eyes meet. Then it is that "now" is stamped with "forever." I love when Dickinson brings eternity into the moment. She does this most famously in Fr690, "Forever is composed of Nows." The poem continues,

So may Countenance

Entertain—without addressing

Countenance of One
In a Neighboring Horizon—

Entertain "a countenance of One/ in a Neighboring Horizon" without addressing it? No names are spoken. Perhaps no names are known? This encounter is, perhaps, just an anonymous passing-by on the street. Have you had that encounter with someone, a momentary connection, that feels somehow eternal? By the way, this could also be describing a visitation from an author, who is entertaining us without addressing us.

But, on a deeper level, this line gets at something about the possessive need to name (address) and own the present, instead of freely allowing oneself to be entertained in the moment.*

I take the "Countenance of One/ in a Neighboring Horizon" in this poem to refer to the poet Herself. The Countenance of God, or lover, or passer-by on the street, is entertaining, but does not deign to address the poet. Hey, says the Poet, there is a "Countenance of One" over here on this side too! It's as if she is saying, "I've got a Countenance to match yours," but you wouldn't know, because you left, as soon as you came...

Gone—as soon as known—

The moment was intense, and in it, something came to be Known, but now that moment is gone.

Do you think Dickinson is happy with this ephemeral, but eternal encounter, or would she rather have been properly introduced and addressed?

Ultimately, for me, this poem is about the potential immediacy and intensity of any moment of true Witness. The poem itself, like its subject, peers through reality into something Beyond.


             -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

photo by Steve McCurry, story of the phote here

* This idea recalls Fr783, another poem about a mysterious presence which can "entertain" without being introduced (and addressed):

Better entertain
Than could Border Ballad—
Or Biscayan Hymn—
Neither introduction
Need You—unto Him—

My Worthiness is all my Doubt —

My Worthiness is all my Doubt —
His Merit — all my fear —
Contrasting which, my quality
Do lowlier — appear —

Lest I should insufficient prove
For His beloved Need —
The Chiefest Apprehension
Upon my thronging Mind —

Tis true — that Deity to stoop
Inherently incline —
For nothing higher than Itself
Itself can rest upon —

So I — the undivine abode
Of His Elect Content —
Conform my Soul — as 'twere a Church,
Unto Her Sacrament —


       -Fr791, J751, fascicle 37, 1863


There is a tricky thing Dickinson does in the first line of this poem, a move she often makes wherein, through syntax and the use of the line break, she is able to give two very different meanings to a line. For instance, you could read the first line here as saying, “I doubt my own worthiness,” but you could also read it as, “All my doubting is what makes me worthy.” These two opposing readings of the line get at the tension that underlies the poem. In trying to parse this poem, it's helpful to keep both readings of this line in mind at the same time. It's tough to do, especially because of the elided syntax. I’m reminded of Robert Frost’s useful warning that explication consists of “saying a poem over again, only worse.”

The first reading of this line sets up a pretty straightforward reading of the poem. The speaker is filled with doubt about her own spiritual adequacy and fears that she cannot live up to the perfection of the divine. Yet she reflects that it is in God's very nature to “stoop," to reach down to what is lower, since nothing is higher than God Himself. This realization allows the speaker, though she sees herself as an “undivine abode,” to prepare her soul like a church ready to receive a sacrament. 

But the second possible reading of the poem, based off the idea of there being worth in doubt, is trickier. It is triggered not only by the ambiguity of the first line, but also by the telling word "appear" in the phrase, "Contrast which, my quality do lowlier appear." It appears lowlier, but it isn't, because it is only in our doubts and struggles that we can relate to one another. 

Read this way, the tone of the entire poem changes. In the first reading of the poem, for instance, that second line, "His Merit — all my fear —" means something like, "I fear I can never reach the merit of God," but in the second reading it changes to fear of the Merit itself. The Merit itself is in question. I think it suggests that God is an impossible ideal, and you might even say this is at the root of the doubt. 

You see these two readings come to a head in the third stanza of this poem:

'Tis true — that Deity to stoop
Inherently incline —
For nothing higher than Itself
Itself can rest upon —

You can see the paradox in the idea that God must stoop to "incline." In other words, this poem is cleverly saying that to reach up, we must reach down. And so, being low is actually the ideal state, as it is what allows us to "conform" to the sacrament of the church. To reach up is to stoop. Stooping here is shorthand for dying on the cross, for humility, for helping the less fortunate, etc.

The second reading sets up the idea that it is our doubts that help make us worthy, because they are part of our humanity, part of our humility, and therefore part of what allows others to lean on us, and us, on them. Likewise, God must become human (become Christ) in order to be "rest upon." One thinks of Christ’s moment of doubt on the cross, “Why hast thou forsaken me?” That doubt, like Dickinson’s, makes Him human, and therefore relatable. 

I feel as if I put all of this badly, but I'm hoping that in wrestling with this poem I have gotten across its paradoxical point. The low is held high. This is at the crux of Christianity itself, and I think it is the part Dickinson felt aligned with. But conversely the gist of the second reading is that the high and mighty is held to be low. There is a "fear" of the arrogance of anything that purports to be perfect and above us. This ambiguity can be found in the tension of the fabric of the poetry itself.

Another key word in the poem is "content." The last stanza, if we fill in the elisions, goes something like this:

So I — the undivine abode
Of His Elect (am, though undivine, nonetheless) Content —
(to) Conform my Soul — as 'twere a Church,
Unto Her Sacrament —

We are "undivine," and are content to be so, because how else could we be truly aligned with our community (the church)? It's this alignment with the suffering of others that is sacred, that leads us to "Her Sacrament.

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff


Note: It is interesting that God in this poem is a He and the church is a She. It's the Her of the church that Dickinson appears to be conforming to here, not some perfect Him on high.

Growth of Man—like Growth of Nature—

Growth of Man—like Growth of Nature—
Gravitates within—
Atmosphere, and Sun endorse it—
But it stir—alone—

Each—its difficult Ideal
Must achieve—Itself
Through the solitary prowess
Of a Silent Life—

Effort—is the sole condition—
Patience of Itself—
Patience of opposing forces—
And intact Belief—

Looking on—is the Department
Of its Audience—
But Transaction—is assisted
By no Countenance—



      -Fr790, J750, Fascicle 37, 1863

This poem is a guide to living your best life.

Growth of Man—like Growth of Nature—
Gravitates within—

For starters, we are reminded that we take our cues from nature. If you look at nature, you see that there is something innate within living beings from which growth takes place. What does this mean? Just like flowers, we have the blueprint for growth, but we must go within to find it. We will find out what that entails as the poem proceeds.

“Gravitates” is a powerful verb here. Growth stems from our own center of gravity.

Atmosphere, and Sun endorse it—
But it stir—alone—

I take the Sun here to mean, in the context of this poem, something like the approval and happiness of those around us, and the Atmosphere, the pleasantness of our surroundings. Both of these "endorse" our growth, but there must be something deeper we can draw on than set and setting, which, after all, can be mercurial.

“Endorse” is an intriguing word. It’s as if the potential within us is a political candidate, which may be endorsed by sun and atmosphere, but must decide to run for office on its own.

There is also the word “stir,” which is...stirring. We must “stir” —alone—

Apropos, "alone" is set off by itself between two dashes. 

Each—its difficult Ideal
Must achieve—Itself—

These lines present a challenge to us. Each of us have a singular ideal state of becoming, of blooming, but to achieve it, we must muster the wherewithal to get there by ourselves. Can we? Yes, we can. But the implied question is: will we? These lines lead us to ask ourselves this question, difficult to ask because it is asking for something difficult.

Through the solitary prowess
Of a Silent Life—

To achieve this ideal state takes not only solitude, but prowess within this solitude, and not just Silence, but a lifetime of silence. All of our skill, harnessed in silent solitude, not to mention all of our Life, is necessary to get there.

It gives us pause when we realize that Dickinson’s famous reclusivity was in service to this. And further, that within her own solitary prowess, what she was able to harness was, in part, this very set of compact instructions, lyrically composed to last. The fruit of her labors are to help others achieve the fruit of theirs, if they only will. 

Effort—is the sole condition—

Effort is the sole condition. That’s it!  It just takes effort. What kind of effort?

Patience of Itself—

Patience. One pertinent question is, what does the "it" in this poem refer to? It's as if the self, or the engine of the self's growth, were a thing. (It makes me wonder; if Dickinson were a young person in 2025, what pronoun would she take? Would she choose... "it?") Regardless, whatever "it" is must be patient of the process of becoming. I think Dickinson is basically saying here that one must be very patient with one's self. It's a process. It takes time. Mistakes will be made. Effort is what matters. 

Patience of opposing forces—

Not only must one be patient of one's self, but also patient with the forces in opposition to one's self too, all those manifold things that get in the way of becoming our true selves.

And intact Belief—

And we must keep our belief in ourselves, in our ideal potential, intact, unharmed by outside influences. We must protect it from opposing forces. 

Looking on—is the Department
Of its Audience—

I think this is saying that watching the process (the "it") is for others to do, which really just means that it is not for us to do. How do you self-correct without watching yourself? There's a seeming paradox here, but if you are truly blooming, you aren't correcting yourself. It's like that line about dancing like no one is watching you. Once you are inside the music you no longer are conscious of how you look to others. So the self-judgment is the mistake that must be corrected. This is what we are making an effort to transcend. It's a catch 22. One must try to not try. There is no try, there is only do.  

But Transaction—is assisted
By no Countenance—

Countenance, according to the Dickinson lexicon:

Old French, cuntenance, manner of holding oneself, bearing, behavior, aspect. 

1. Other; additional person; person exterior to oneself.

2. Face; visage; facial expression; [fig.] appearance; bearing; demeanor; personality.
3. Glory; radiance; sunbeams; solar illumination; refulgent light; intense shining of the sun.

All of these meanings are possibly at play in this poem, but since we have just had the idea of an audience looking, we may say that what is being said here is that the countenance of another, the opinion of another, will not help us transact into full blossom. This we must do ourselves. 

Transaction is defined by the Dickinson lexicon as: "Effort; labor; exertion." So again, it comes down to effort and even though we may be endorsed by the refulgent light of others, they can't assist us where it truly matters, a decision that must be rooted in belief that must remain intact beyond the vagaries of opinion. 

Here we consider Dickinson's poetry. A poem that proceeds this one in the fascicle, Fr788, "Publication is the auction of the mind of man," is thinking along a similar line. We are getting more and more insight in fascicle 37 as to why these poems, although clearly written for the edification of others, refused to be influenced by them. 

File this one under Emily Dickinson poems to be inspired by. 

       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Solitude by Thomas Harrison, 1889

P.S. That line "dance like no one is watching you" always reminds me of Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams, one of my all time favorite poems.

All but Death, can be Adjusted —

All but Death, can be Adjusted —
Dynasties repaired —
Systems — settled in their Sockets —
Citadels — dissolved —

Wastes of Lives — resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs —
Death — unto itself — Exception —
Is exempt from Change —


       -F789, J749, Fascicle 37, 1863 

Change while you can, because you can’t change death. That’s the blunt point of this poem. All but Death, can be Adjusted —

It’s also a strangely hopeful poem though. If you aren’t dead, you still have time. You can still “adjust.” The poem begins and ends with the inevitability of death, but in the living center of this poem Dickinson teases out just what it is that may still be changed.

Let’s look at these one at a time.

Dynasties repaired —

Death may not be reparable, but, on the other hand, entire dynasties can be repaired. At first glance that’s comforting. But wait a minute, is that really what we want? Do we really want to repair Dynasties? A Dynasty is a family or group that has held power a long time. Maybe it's time for a change? So, this particular change back might be a little suspect.

How about that next one,

Systems settled in their sockets —

First of all, look how well those words fit, trochaically, into the “system” of that line? It fits like a ball in a socket. And the phrase, in turn, fits into the well-oiled socket of the hymn meter of this poem. 

This, we should note is the result of a change from chaos to order. The Dynasties may be in need of repair, but this line is about the process of repair itself. To bring a Dynasty back into order, you better get your systems settled in their sockets.

Finally, this line reminds me of an Emily Dickinson poem that was brought to my attention by the terrific bestselling novel by Gabrielle Zevin, “Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow.” This poem is mentioned over and over again in the book as the main character meditates on it:

“That Love is all there is,
Is all we know of Love;
It is enough, the freight should be
Proportioned to the groove.”

In the socket, in the groove, we are talking about all we know of Love here.

The third process up for consideration here is:

Citadels — dissolved —

A citadel is a city’s fortress. Maybe you could argue that it is good to protect cities (and people) from being invaded, but you might also say that a dissolving citadel would be a very welcome thing, since it would mean there are no more threats. 

So are these desired changes or not? Do Dynasties need repair? Can a system be too in the socket? Does a city need protection?

But, taken on a more inspiring and personal level, you may say that the dynasty (your own reign of power) may be repaired, that your systems (your life) may be gotten back into their sockets, and that you may, it is hoped, learn to let down the guard of your citadel.

The second stanza gives us one more lovely example,

Wastes of Lives — resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs —

The winter wasteland of your life may be resown with the colors of spring.

If words fit into the system of lines, and the lines fit into the meter of the poem, then this poem fits into the system of the fascicle, the little book into which has been “sown” together (literally) by the author. You can see this idea operating here with the “resown with Colors by Succeeding Springs” because in this same fascicle, a couple poems back, there is one about sewing with the colors of autumn. These lines are a call back to that poem, and part of the system of the fascicle.

I like the double meaning of the word “Succeeding” before "Springs." Succeed can mean coming after, but it can also mean —Success!

Death — unto itself — Exception —
Is exempt from Change —

The poem ends where it begins, with the inevitability of death. But between, there are succeeding springs, systems in place, citadels dissolved and dynasties repaired. Do what you’ve got to do, the poem warns. Death’s a-coming.

One more observation here. When I saw the line about systems settled in their sockets I looked, instinctively, to see if Emily did something to the form of this poem to unsettle the system. I first looked at the rhythm and noticed it was nicely settled into its system, but then I looked at the rhyme scheme and noticed that there really isn't one. System subtly disrupted?

-/)dam Wade l)eGraff

My daughter Sofia once wrote a poem that has the same double sense 

of the word “succeed" that Dickinson uses in this poem.

"I succeed the seed of me in the breeze.” - Sofia DeGraff

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 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

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 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.)

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:

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.” 

Autumn — overlooked my Knitting —

Autumn — overlooked my Knitting —
Dyes — said He — have I —
Could disparage a Flamingo —
Show Me them — said I —

Cochineal — I chose — for deeming
It resemble Thee —
And the little Border — Dusker —
For resembling Me —


      FR786, J748, Fascicle 37, 1863

Let’s "overlook" that opening line:

Autumn — overlooked my Knitting —

The word "overlooked” is a bit misleading here, because it has the connotation of "looking past” or "ignoring," but in the context of the rest of the poem, it carries the sense of “looked over.” (Though perhaps Autumn is also ignoring the poet's more summery work too.)

Autumn, in poetry parlance, is the season of reflection, both a remembrance of the youth of summer, and a preparation for the winter of old age and death. It is also the time of harvest.

Another parallel with Autumn is Dusk, a word which appears in the second stanza of this poem. Dusk is to Night as Autumn is to Winter and as Old Age is to Death.

“Knitting,” in the context of this poem, is self-referential. It is one way to speak of the writing of poems. I’m sure there have been some terrific essays written on Dickinson’s use of this analogy. (You can see this motif on display in one of her earliest poems, which parallels this one in more ways than one, F21.)

So, we might say that, figuratively, old age is looking over the poet’s shoulder as she writes her poem. He offers her a better, richer color palette:

Dyes — said He — have I —
Could disparage a Flamingo —

There is word play in “Dyes” here, a homonym with "Dies." This is apropos, since this poem, at heart, is about the acceptance of the richness and beauty of death.

Autumn’s Dyes would disparage a flamingo. A flamingo carries the color of pink, of spring, of newness. It's a tropical, exotic bird. The word flamingo carries the word "flame" in it too. It reminds us of the heat of summer. Pink is the color of newborns, and of little girls.

 

Autumn’s Dyes "disparage" all of this. According to the Dickinson Lexicon, disparage means to “dishonor by a comparison of greater value.”

Flamingo pink is hot, says august Autumn, but I’ve got something even better than that.

Show Me them — said I

The Poet looks into the face of death and bravely demands to see these dyes. “Show Me them.” She chooses one.

Cochineal — I chose — for deeming
It resemble Thee —

Autumn shows the poet colors of a richer, deeper hue and the poet chooses, from among them, Cochineal. If spring’s pink is red with a dab of white, Autumn's cochineal is red with a dab of black.

Cochineal is notable, also, for being almost the exact color of blood.

Cochineal bugs are used to make carmine dye. Billions

are thoughtlessly killed every year to color everything 

from Nerds candy to rouge and lipstick. (Natural Dye #4)

The poet says she chooses this color because it resembles “Thee,” her beloved. Perhaps it reminds the poet of "Thee" because cochineal is the blood-red color of the heart, of life. There is also a flowering cactus called a Cochineal. Could it be that Dickinson was making a pointed joke about the prickly nature of this love?

cochineal cactus

Then for the coup de grâce we get these final lines:

And the little Border — Dusker —
For resembling Me —

Just by adding that word "Dusker" here Dickinson conjures up a sunset to accompany the deepening red of this poem. 

What is Dickinson knitting here? A scarf? A blanket? Surely it is something to keep her beloved warm, and perhaps even to cover them both.

I always read myself (and, by extension, all readers) into the role of “Thee” in Dickinson’s poems. She is knitting this poem for us, too, to keep us warm in the chilly depths of winter.

She has woven herself into the “border” of this blanket. The blood-red color of “Thee” takes up the bulk of this blanket. The poet is just visible at the blanket's edge. What color is dusker than cochineal? What color is a little closer to the darkness of midnight black? A deep maroon perhaps? It might look something like this.

The blanket your cool goth grandma might knit for you

Perhaps this poem was given to Sue with an accompanying blooming cochineal cactus plant? Dickinson often gave poems with flowers. Or maybe it was given as a note with an actual blanket she knitted herself?

Now this blanket poem, like a precious heirloom, is passed along to Thee, the reader. May it keep you warm when the temperature drops.



       -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

It dropped so low — in my Regard —

It dropped so low — in my Regard —
I heard it hit the Ground —
And go to pieces on the Stones
At bottom of my Mind —

Yet blamed the Fate that flung it — less
Than I denounced Myself,
For entertaining Plated Wares
Upon My Silver Shelf —


          -FR785, J747, fascicle 37, 1863

Some Dickinson poems function as generic parables. In this one you can plug X in for “It.” X is anything that you once fell for, but has now fallen.

You could try, as many have, to apply the situation to Dickinson’s life. You could plug in for X some friend or lover who has fallen in Emily’s esteem. Or perhaps “publication” could be plugged in here, since there is another poem in this same fascicle which begins “Publication is the auction of the mind of man.”  But really it would all be guesswork. The poem could be applied to any disillusionment

How does it land for you? That is the important question I think.

There was a guy back in HS who I thought was the coolest guy ever. How amazing, I thought back then, that this guy doesn’t care what others think of him. He was the quarterback of the football team, handsome, well-dressed and wealthy. He had a sexy indifference that I deeply envied. But all of that surface show turned out to be like the silver plating over a base metal. Many years later this friend imploded in a spectacular way and the baseness was revealed on the craggy rocks of reality. It turns out, in retrospect, that my social anxieties were less a defect, and more a sign of a desire to connect with others. It was my own self-doubt that turned out to be a foundation for building a Shelf. (My own Shelf is made of recycled wood, but we can't all be Emily Dickinson.) 

The parable of this poem may be compared to another from the bible, the one about not building your house on sand, from Matthew 7. “Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash.”

There is a parallel between the two parables even in that rock the house is built on. In Dickinson’s poem she hears, in her fertile imagination, this once esteemed thing hit the ground “And go to pieces on the Stones/ At bottom of my Mind —”

The bottom of Dickinson’s mind turns out to be as solid as the rocks in Jesus’ parable. But here we have an added element. If the bottom of her mind is like rock, the top is a silver shelf. What a wonderful rhyme with  "myself." She takes the parable to the next level. Make the thing where you keep your valuables the more valuable thing. The invaluable things will fall on their own accord, when... “the rains come down, the streams rise, and the winds blow and beat against that house,” but the silver shelf built in that house upon the solid rock will be inviolate.

For me, the idea of this poem being about publishing, and Dickinson's own poetry, makes some sense. I find the clue for this in that word “entertaining.” Dickinson is not here to entertain us with easy poetry, she’s here for those more rare and durable metals that belong on her shelf.

It’s fascinating to me that, in light of Dickinson’s aversion to publishing, in poems such as this one she seems to be writing for the general public. A parable, by its generic nature, has a public purpose, and yet what was Dickinson’s plan for making these poems available to this general readership? Did she expect that the same fates that threw the plated wares to the ground (according to this poem) would assist in leaving her finely wrought Silver Shelf for future generations? And doesn't it appear as if the fates have done their part? Here we are now, reading the poem, her letter to the word, that is sitting still upon her silver shelf.

-

Notes: 

1. I think it is meaningful that this poem and the one proceeding it in the fascicle both begin with something being dropped. If you read the poems in order, you can hardly help notice this. She drops this word "drop" here as if it were a hint. In the previous one, FR784, Dickinson wants to drop her burden of responsibility for a quick fix, and in this one what drops is something false. There is a progression between these two poems then. The desire for the quick fix in the previous poem is, in this poem, perhaps, the false thing that is dropped. In other words, in the previous poem, she wants to drop the burden, but in this poem Dickinson decides to drop her desire instead. 

2. There's a guy on YouTube that breaks down some Dickinson poems. He can get pretty histrionic when he gets worked up about the poems which I appreciate. There's a moment in his breakdown of this poem where he gets so worked up he throws his head back for a moment and then brings it forward and says  Wawawooey. It's around 7:45 mark in this video. I just thought I'd share this great hidden moment with the greater Prowling Bee community. 

I sometimes drop it, for a Quick –

I sometimes drop it, for a Quick –
The Thought to be alive –
Anonymous Delight to know –
And Madder – to conceive –

Consoles a Wo so monstrous
That did it tear all Day,
Without an instant’s Respite –
‘Twould look too far – to Die –

Delirium – diverts the Wretch
For Whom the Scaffold neighs –
The Hammock’s motion lulls the Heads
So close on Paradise –

A Reef – crawled easy from the Sea
Eats off the Brittle Line –
The Sailor doesn't know the Stroke –
Until He’s past the Pain –


    -FR784, J708, fascicle 37, 1863


This one gets me immediately with that first line. What is being dropped? Woe itself, assuredly. Though it could also be a goal. I dropped the drudgery of my goal for a Quick (blank.) Quick could be a noun, in which case it means “Life’ or it could be an adjective without a referent. In other words, something gets dropped before the sentence even comes to an end. It gets dropped quickly!

What else could you say is being dropped? The Martyrdom? The Renunciation? (This idea comes from the poem about renunciation preceding this one in the fascicle.)

The “it” being dropped in that first line stands for something difficult, something painful.

Drop it for a "Quick." A quick what, Emily? A quick fix? A quickie? A quick thought of being alive. It’s almost like she’s talking quickly out loud here, jumping ahead of her own thoughts, the way she elides the object of the sentence and picks it up in the next line. You can imagine it as spoken dialogue. If this were dialogue then the dashes might function as little questions in the pattern of speech: “I sometimes drop it, for a Quick (a quick what?) The Thought to be alive (why?) Anonymous Delight to know (but) and madder to conceive (What even is life? It seems crazy.)"

Each line is so redolent with meaning. But the basic gist is, you feel like dropping something difficult and painful for some quick fix, some easy way out.

Just have a quick little fix of whatever drug you need. Whatever diversion. What is your drug of choice?  Emily uses...

The Thought to be alive -

This line stands on its own, as a complete thought. You really can’t ever get past it completely. The thought to be alive. To be alive is the “quick,” if we take the definition of quick as a noun. Life.

I mean, really stop and think about that line. It's heady. 

Now feel that line in counterweight to what it is that is dropped: Woe. Whoa.

Anonymous Delight to know–

That word anonymous there is so packed. Why is Delight anonymous? Think of it as opposed to Woe. If delight is anonymous, then Woe is personal. If anonymous Delight is heady, then Woe is hearty.

Why is Delight anonymous? Because delight doesn’t care. When I am in a state of pure delight I am disconnected from the suffering of my fellow beings. I’m anonymous. It's wonderful in its way. And perhaps even necessary from time to time. But it's ultimately empty. It’s only in relation with other that we become Somebody. But in relation comes, by necessity, Woe.

What is the Delight? There are probably as many forms as there are types of people. But in this case, it is the mere thought of being alive. Being alive is an experience being translated into feeling, and then into thought, and then, perhaps, into words on a page.  

And Madder – to conceive –

Look at this line in isolation. It’s mad to conceive. What does it mean to conceive? Conceive may refer to "Thought," as in the line before it, but it also has the sense of "Birth." (It's strange that birth and thought share the same word, no? That thought itself is a strange conception!) The two senses of the word "Conception" seem to come together here. Dickinson ties the two ideas, of thought and life, into this one word.

And Madder – to conceive –  There is something a little mad about this line. It’s almost Shakespearean the way it turns in on itself. The thought of what life really is will drive you mad. Why? It makes you really question why.

The madness also points AWAY from the sanity, because sanity seems to be found in the woe. Woe is found in our connection with others.

(I was having a conversation with students today over the way people bond through complaining. I was reminded of this poem, and an earlier one in this fascicle, FR780, which is about two women who are wed through the bond of their grief.)

 Now we are now set up for the second stanza. This quick diversion consoles...

Consoles a Wo so monstrous
That did it tear all Day,
Without an instant’s Respite –
‘Twould look too far – to Die –

To have anonymous delight in being alive consoles us. We need it. Because the monstrous woe, which would be the loss of the beloved, can be so great that without an “Instant’s respite” we would want to kill ourselves, because “‘Twould look too far to die.”

I like that word “Instant” in there. Instantaneous gratification. As opposed to the work of woe, which is part of the drudgery, part of thing you wish to drop.

Delirium – diverts the Wretch
For Whom the Scaffold neighs –
The Hammock’s motion lulls the Heads
So close on Paradise –

Delirium is that mad happiness, that drug high, that gives some instant respite to the wretch "For Whom the Scaffold neighs–" I hear the line “For whom the bell tolls,” by John Donne here. (I would guess Emily was familiar with that poem.)

But for whom the scaffold neighs is…nightmarish. The scaffold, which is murdering the self for…being a murderer! sounds like a horse neighing, a horse rearing before galloping to hell. It creates a disturbing and surreal image. Neigh also sounds like Nay. The scaffold nays.

But remember, in this poem the neighing scaffold appears to be a punishment the poet wishes to willingly face! It’s akin to the cross. The mad delirious fun is a diversion from what really matters, which is the damned who are dying in distress.

The Hammock’s motion lulls the Heads
So close on Paradise –

The Quick fix is like the hammock’s motion lulling the Heads. It’s hard to know what those hammocks are doing there at first read, but the association is with boats. This is a sailor lying in the hammock. The waves are rocking him to sleep. The motion lulls. If the sailor was not lulled to sleep, he would be able to navigate the shoals and get to land. He let himself be lulled (drugged) to his own demise, and that of his crew.

The poem flips here I think. The first half of the poem seems to say, you need a diversion now and then to keep from killing yourself. The final stanza though, says to get back on watch! Don’t let your fellows be sacrificed on the gallows. Don’t let the ship be wrecked.

A Reef – crawled easy from the Sea

Eats off the Brittle Line –

At first I thought the first line meant that a sailor or someone to save the sailor is crawling up onto the reef. And the brittle line was a rope that was being eaten by the coral. 

But upon further reading I’m inclined to think that the Reef is personified as something that so easily can crawl up and cause us to wreck. Perhaps a fling?  Is it an affair we are “dropping” our burden for? It is some kind of addiction. That's the the reef that crawls so easily from the sea.

“Eats off the brittle line” is, itself, a brittle line. The brittle line in the context of this poem, as I read it, is the line reaching of safety being offered from the shore, but also the line between life and death. The coral gnaws through this fragile life-line, and the sailor dies in the wreck, which, of course, could have been avoided if he kept on his watch.

 The Sailor doesn't know the Stroke –
Until He’s past the Pain –

The sailor doesn’t know the stroke (of death) until he’s past the pain. I imagine him drunk, happily swaying in his cot as the ship hits the coral, dreaming of the pleasures of the South Seas. He relaxed his guard and now the whole crew is lost. 

Heavy.

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Guillou’s Adieu! (1892)

Waterhouse's Miranda (1916)

Demont-Breton's Stella Maris (1894)

Check out the terrific blog post on paintings

 of shipwrecks from which I found these images. 

P.S. I'm adding this note on 6/18/25. This poem keeps returning and haunting me (in the best way) as I make my own decisions between the desire for "anonymous delight," and the "Pain" of "Paradise."  I often want to drop the woe for the quick. The line that haunts me is that gallows neigh, the idea that dropping woe can be equated with murder, because we are ignoring the plight of our neighbor. I've rarely felt more called to task than I have been by this poem. 

Never for Society

Never for Society
He shall seek in vain—
Who His own acquaintance
Cultivate—Of Men

Wiser Men may weary—
But the Man within
Never knew Satiety—
Better entertain

Than could Border Ballad—
Or Biscayan Hymn—
Neither introduction
Need You—unto Him—


      -FR783, J746, Fascicle 37, 1863


The syntax on this one is a little tricky, but once unraveled it is pretty straightforward. Here's a prose translation for the lines below, as I understand them.

Never for Society
He shall seek in vain—

One (who is wise) shall never vainly seek for the society of others.

Who His own acquaintance
Cultivate—Of Men
Wiser Men may weary—
But the Man within

Never knew Satiety—

If you are wise and cultivate an acquaintance with the One in yourself, then you may grow weary of others, but the One within to whom you acquaint yourself, you will never become satiated with his/her company.

Better entertain
Than could Border Ballad—
Or Biscayan Hymn—

The One inside that you become friends with will entertain you better than any Scottish border ballad or Biscayan (Basque) hymn.

Neither introduction
Need You—unto Him—

Unlike the people in society, you need no introduction to this Friend inside of you.

 
Of course, understanding this poem syntactically and understanding this poem internally are two different things.

It’s hard to know for sure who this “Man” inside is meant to be. It could possibly be Christ, with that capital M “Man” and capital H “His.” It could also be read as higher/deeper Self, with that adjectival indicator “own” in the line “He shall never seek in vain/ Who His own acquaintance/ Cultivate.” 

This poem goes some way toward explaining Emily Dickinson’s increasingly reclusive nature. She was vastly entertained by her own ballads, and by her own hymn-like poems. Even the most compelling external distractions cannot rival the richness of self-discovery.

This is a model for the reader. A majority of the poems written before this one in Dickinson’s oeuvre exhibit a painful yearning for a Beloved. In this one the Beloved has been internalized as Self.

It is instructive to pair this poem with a very similar one from earlier in this fascicle, FR773, which begins, "Conscious am I in my Chamber –/Of a shapeless friend –"

Compare, for instance, these lines from the earlier poem,

Weariness of Him, were quainter
Than Monotony
Knew a Particle – of Space’s
Vast Society –

To the lines from this one,

Of Men
Wiser Men may weary—
But the Man within

Never knew Satiety—

Read together you get a a growing sense of this "shapeless Friend" within. In this poem you get the added idea that this Friend is...entertaining! To find this entertaining Self within is a challenge worth taking up. 

      -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Write your own Border Ballads and Biscayan Hymns!

Renunciation—is a piercing Virtue—

Renunciation—is a piercing Virtue—
The letting go
A Presence—for an Expectation—
Not now—
The putting out of Eyes—
Just Sunrise—
Lest Day—
Day’s Great Progenitor—
Outvie
Renunciation—is the Choosing
Against itself—
Itself to justify
Unto itself—
When larger function—
Make that appear—
Smaller—that Covered Vision—Here—


      -F782, J745, Fascicle 37, 1863


This is what David Preest refers to as “a definition poem of an abstract idea.” There are two more of them in this fascicle, FR775, "Suspense—is Hostiler than Death—" and FR781, the poem before this one in the fascicle, "Remorse—is Memory Awake—"  Together, they comprise a kind of series.

This one is difficult and esoteric, but its truth is a correspondingly deep one. 

Renunciation—is a piercing Virtue—
The letting go
A Presence—for an Expectation—

If you let go of your expectations, you are left with Presence. I find this axiom to be very meaningful. It reminds me of William Blake’s poem “Eternity”:

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy
He who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in Eternity’s Sunrise

The adjective “piercing” here is rich. Piercing implies pain. Renunciation hurts. But piercing also implies depth. Piercing is an adjective and verb at once, and it sums up the paradox of the poem; in the piercing pain can be found the piercing Presence. (Compare this with the previous poem about "Remorse" in the fascicle, which may be summed up, "when you burn you learn.")

"The letting go" is an echo from one of Dickinson's most famous lines, from FR372, "First—Chill—then Stupor—then the letting go—" 

You see this line anew. It's not a letting go. It's THE letting go. 

I love that two word stand-alone line following this opening:

“Not now—”

Forget your expectation of immediate gratification, sir! Not now!

The putting out of Eyes—
Just Sunrise—

These lines are a puzzle. On a surface level, you could say that the putting out of eyes, the putting to sleep of eyes, leads to Sunrise the next morning. But I think, in the context of the rest of the poem, they mean something like; the shutting of the eyes to desire leads us to the opening of a greater vision, the Sunrise. 

Lest Day—
Day’s Great Progenitor—
Outvie

Here, I think, Day represents the self, and the Great Progenitor is equivalent to Presence and Sunrise. If we close our eyes to the day, then that day does not attempt to “outvie” (compete) against the Source of that day. We close our eyes to our desires, and we come into Presence with the Source of the desire itself.

Renunciation—is the Choosing
Against itself—
Itself to justify
Unto itself—

What?! This is difficult to untangle because we don’t quite know what the “it” refers to here. It seems at first that “it” refers back to renunciation, but that doesn’t quite gel. Put into prose it would be; renunciation is the choosing against renunciation to justify renunciation unto renunciation? That’s doesn’t make sense to me. But if “it” refers to the object of desire, then I think we are getting somewhere. Renunciation is the choosing against the desired object, justifying the desired object unto itself. In “letting go” you are also “letting be.” The object of desire is free to be. You have "justified" it. 

When larger function—
Make that appear—
Smaller—that Covered Vision—Here—

Larger function = the Presence, the Great Progenitor, the Sunrise. (Notice Dickinson’s avoidance of the fraught word "God" here, even though she dances all around it.) When the shutting of the eyes allows that larger function, then that larger function makes the renounced object of desire appear smaller, and, then, paradoxically, that covered vision appears... “—Here—”

"Here" is set off between dashes, full of portent and Presence.

Here!

I find this poem especially poignant during this season of Lent.


     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Buddha's 7th Great Deed: Renunciation

Notes: 

1. It would be remiss not to talk about the form of this poem, with its wildly fluctuating meter, and its heavy use of dimeter. The only poem that seems in line with this one so far in the first 782 poems of Dickinson's oeuvre is the one a few poems back in this fascicle, FR778. This one feels wholly experimental to me, but I’d love to know if there is an antecedent for it. Perhaps it is worth noting that the poem starts out with iambic pentameter and ends with trochaic pentameter, but all the lines between are seemingly random. Still though, the rhythm and rhyme have a satisfying flow and finish. It's disjointed, but feels right. Perhaps this is in line with Renunciation itself.

2. I recently learned that Dickinson’s library contained a volume of William Blake. I’ve always wondered about that, since there are so many similarities between the two poets. Not only is the Sunrise in this poem reminiscent of Blake's Eternal Sunrise, but I can feel Blake's epigrammatic concision in, "The putting out of eyes/ Just Sunrise." It just occurred to me that Blake, himself, may have been alluding to Alexander Pope’s “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”

Remorse — is Memory — awake —

Remorse — is Memory — awake —
Her Parties all astir —
A Presence of Departed Acts —
At window — and at Door —

Its Past — set down before the Soul
And lighted with a Match —
Perusal — to facilitate —
And help Belief to stretch —

Remorse is cureless — the Disease
Not even God — can heal —
For 'tis His institution — and
The Adequate of Hell —

        -FR781, J744, Fascicle 37, 1863


This might have been written by Lady Macbeth just before she killed herself, burning with remorse for her part in killing King Duncan. It’s that dark.

Remorse — is Memory — awake —
Her Parties all astir —

Who are these Parties? Parties to what? Parties to some terrible act?  “Parties” here is short for “Participants” so it seems to imply that the fault was shared. Or maybe the memories themselves are being personified as Parties, and these memories are all astir. The mind is being stirred up, going crazy.

A Presence of Departed Acts —
At window — and at Door —

The idea of a presence of an absence, and, conversely, an absence of a presence, is one I’ve seen before in Dickinson, though I can’t quite recall where. The word departed leads one to wonder if perhaps the remorse here is because some beloved has departed over a disagreement, or a slight. And in that "Door," the one through which the lover “departed,” there is now a stoppage. It’s like the one who was left behind is now trapped in the house and cannot, themselves, leave.

Note that the word “Acts” here could be read as both a noun and a verb. The idea of the Presence of the Departed acting at the door and window has a ghostly quality to it.

Its Past — set down before the Soul
And lighted with a Match —
Perusal — to facilitate —
And help Belief to stretch —

The Match, first and foremost, is helping (facilitating) the remorseful in going over (perusing) the fault. But there is more than just light coming from the Match, there is also heat. That Match may be helping us to “read” the cause of our sin, but it is also starting a fire. There is a burning quality to remorse. And this becomes reified with the mention of Hell in the following stanza. Remorse is the spark that starts the fire of Hell in which we burn. In that burning we can "see." 

Also, there is another possible connotation to Match. If we are going with the remorse here being over the departure of a loved one, then the Match also alludes to what was lost, the Match between two souls.

What does it mean that this remorse “helps belief to stretch?” Does that mean it “stretches belief?” In other words, that it makes it hard to believe? Or does it mean that it helps us believe, it helps us stretch toward belief. So tricky with her syntax that Emily D!

The next stanza does not help resolve this conundrum.

Remorse is cureless—the Disease
Not even God—can heal—

Christian “Belief” would point to a cure, which would be forgiveness of sins through Christ’s sacrifice. But Dickinson isn’t accepting that. “Not even God—can heal—” It’s also tricky what Dickinson does with syntax here. It seems at first like she is saying God is impotent in the face of remorse, but the next line puts a twist on it:

For 'tis His institution — and
The Adequate of Hell —

God can’t heal, because remorse is from God. I think this is pointing to the idea that we must live with remorse, with our sins, because that’s how we can learn from them. If we were merely forgiven, how then would remorse work on us? It is hell, and therefore it is adequate for the situation. We need to burn to learn.

Like Shakespeare does with his treatment of Macbeth, Dickinson doesn’t let herself, or us, off the hook with easy Grace. Rather, she is saying, we should face the hell we create.



        -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Ugolino by Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux

Notes

1. David Preest points out, “This is a definition poem of an abstract idea, like poems FR775 and FR782. Indeed all three poems come from the same fascicle, and their opening lines are syntactically similar.” This is a great insight. The other two poems begin, “Suspense is hostiler than death” and the one directly following this one in the fascicle, “Renunciation is a piercing virtue.” Preest also points out that Remorse, like the continual resurgences of Suspense in the earlier poem, will never end.

2.  Dickinson provides “Complement” as an alternative word for “Adequate.” Remorse is the complement of hell. She also provides, “Of its condensed despatch” as an alternative for “And help Belief to stretch.” Remorse as a condensed dispatch from God is quite a thought!

3. I like what writer Jamison Dove has to say, 

"The second stanza is a beautiful act of self-examination. “Its Past—set down before the Soul / And lighted with a Match—” is powerful reverb, or we could say an echo of how our “Soul” can transmute the “Past” into a more useful form. Implied by Dickinson is the process of self-examination leading to our growth of a better self. The “Match” acting as a spark towards “Belief” in a better self.

“His institution” is a marker of our folly, which reminds me of the lines from Homer’s Odyssey:

This is absurd,
that mortals blame the gods! They say we cause
their suffering, but they themselves increase it
by folly.

-Book 1, Lines 32-35, Emily Wilson translation