I heard a Fly buzz — when I died —

I heard a Fly buzz — when I died —
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air —
Between the Heaves of Storm —

The Eyes around — had wrung them dry —
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset — when the King
Be witnessed — in the Room —

I willed my Keepsakes — Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable — and then it was
There interposed a Fly —

With Blue — uncertain stumbling Buzz —
Between the light — and me —
And then the Windows failed — and then
I could not see to see—

                                                                               F591 (1863)  J465

The heavy irony of this poem renders it nearly comical: the last thing a dying person encounters, rather than the face of God or loving human faces is a "stumbling", buzzing housefly. What an anti-climax! Either in service of or mitigating the comedic potential of the irony is Dickinson's calm and precise narrative voice. She describes the scene from a vantage after death as if offering a summary statement, much in the manner we might make a report to the insurance company about some accident or loss.

        I was reminded of how Aldous Huxley took a very ample injected dose of LSD on his deathbed. It's a gamble. What if it had been a bad trip? What if, instead of grandeur, a tunnel of light, the welcoming face of a grand deity – he saw a fly? We'll never know. But what Dickinson is telling us here is that no matter what solemnity you endeavor, no matter what your plans or expectations, death takes what form it will.

Calliphora vomitoria (bluebottle fly)

        Beneath the stumble and bumble is the fact of flies: they are carrion creatures. This one, buzzing around a dying body, is a grim but fitting preamble to the corpse.  I can imagine how everyone in the room, including the dying person, wished to chase that fly outside if not smash it to smithereens. No one likes a fly in the house, especially flying around the face. But what could they do? Get the flyswatter out and attack the fly as it buzzes around the body? What a quandry. I wonder if Dickinson, who at least poetically enjoyed deathbed watches, had ever seen such an interposing fly and mulled over just what it would be like if it happened to her.

        It would be like being jilted. You expect the King in this ultimate moment and instead you get a bluebottle fly. And there's no going back and doing it over.

The poem is full of hearing and seeing. It begins with sound. There is a buzz, a stillness, and breaths. At the end, more buzzing. For sight there are the onlookers' eyes, once weeping but now "wrung…dry". The expected King is to be "witnessed". The Fly is seen at the end, it's uncertain blue body the last sight of the dying speaker. At the end, when the eyes, or Windows, fail, she can no longer look out; she can no longer see at all.

Dickinson writes the poem as a double flashback. The narrator is speaking from somewhere beyond death, recounting that experience. She starts with the fly but then flashes back a bit earlier. Before the fly made its unwanted appearance, there was a stereotypical deathbed scene. The air was still, something ike the calm at the center of a hurricane (fittingly called the eye of the storm). The gathered family and friends have run out of tears and begin readying themselves for the final throes of death – the moment when King Jesus is to carry the soul away to its heavenly abode.

        In her final moments the dying person lucidly makes her final will and testament. All is ready. The next line is one of Dickinson's greats, written in the passive voice as if someone were musing wonderingly at an odd thing. "and then it was / There interposed a Fly". Now we are back in time to when the poem started. The narrative is impelled with two more "and then"s as sight is lost, signifying death.

The incongruity of the poem is, I think, meant to deflate death, to bring it into the realm of daily life. To us death is anticipated as momentous. To the cosmos, or the household biota, perhaps not so much. It would consequently be a mistake to expect some grand, transcendental experience to be carried off without a hitch (which may be why Huxley tried to stack the deck with LSD). For some

In an earlier poem, Dickinson claimed that agony was appropriate on the deathbed ("I like a look of Agony" [F339]). The agony is akin to birth pains as the soul transitions; it is also cathartic for the observers.

        In "A throe upon the features" [F105], Dickinson sketches death as first "A throe", then "A hurry in the breath" and finally "An ecstasy of parting". That is the tragedy of the fly: it kills the ecstasy.

Dickinson's language in this popular poem is in stark contrast to the antics of the fly. She peppers the poem with formal and legalistic terms: the King is to "Be witnessed"; she wills her Keepsakes and signs away "What portion of me be / Assignable" (a rather droll way of categorizing material possessions); even the fly is "interposed" between the light and the poet. The disparity between the language of the deathbed scene and the actions of the antic fly adds to the irony.

        That light is no doubt metaphorical as well as descriptive. Within the light should be some vision, some epiphany; even God. What does it mean when a fly blocks that light? I don't think Dickinson meant it as some divine cruelty. It is not the "June Bee" that disappears into the "mocking sky" after tantalizing us with heaven. Nor do I think it is some degraded image of Jesus. It is, at most, a sign of cosmic indifference to the ultimate moment of life. Rather than a demon battling for possession of a precious soul, there is the same nagging, mundane, buzzing annoyance that plagues one throughout the whole of life.

I've seen a Dying Eye

I've seen a Dying Eye
Run round and round a Room –
In search of Something – as it seemed –
Then Cloudier become –
And then – obscure with Fog –
And then – be soldered down
Without disclosing what it be
'Twere blessed to have seen –
                                                  Fr 648 (1863)  J547


The living have no way to really know what happens after death. There are the usual reports from the near dead or briefly dead: the tunnel with a light at the end, for example; or the evanescing (or perhaps effervescing) into the vast Oneness of the Cosmos. But we tend to take these tales with a grain of salt. The brain might be doing strange things as it closes down. We may be conditioned to expect certain outcomes and, thus, imagine we've seen them.
        In this poem, the speaker waits by a death bed or death beds hoping the dying person will provide some indication of what might be glimpsed as he or she passes through the veil separating life from death. But no such indication is forthcoming.
        It's a poem of frustration rather than grief. The speaker details the Eye's movements in the last moments, but it is clear it is not clinical curiosity about what an eye does before becoming "soldered down" with death, but rather curiosity about what the eye sees as the body dies. There is, however, no indication that dying Eyes see anything of note. They become cloudy, then obscured, and then, finally, closed in the finality of death. The poem ends with the speaker frustrated that nothing has been revealed, but Dickinson seems to imply that the dying are not "blessed to have seen" anything.

Fading Away, Henry Robinson: Victorian deathbed watch

In another poem's death scene frustration, a dying person "heard a Fly buzz" when she died rather than seeing "the King," undoubtedly Jesus or some other representation of God or the divine, that those gathered around her were clearly expecting. Instead she sees only a fly as her "Windows failed." The incongruous and existential disparity between savior and fly in this poem (Fr591) is profound.

Dickinson refrains from the hushed respect accorded death bed watches. While the buzzing blue fly is an almost sarcastic dismissal of hopes for a divine encounter,  Sharon Leiter  says that the Dying Eye's searching in the current poem "suggests nothing so much as a demented rodent of some sort racing desperately in circles' (Critical Companion to Emily Dickinson, 2007, p. 133). I don't think that Dickinson is dismissing the mysteries of life and death but rather depicting the vagaries, indignities, and ultimately the singularly alone-ness of the passage.

Dickinson compresses two stanzas in this poem, using traditional hymn or ballad style. She further knits the poem together with word sounds. The 'ou's of  "round and round" are echoed in "Cloudier" and 'Without". The rodent quickness is impelled by the "r"s of "Run round and round a Room" followed by the sibilance of "In search of Something – as it seemed – ." "Dying Eye" not only has a core rhyme but the visual element of the "y," and most of the end words can be sorted into two slant rhyme groups: Room, seemed, become; and seemed, be, and seen (plus down with seen).
        But the heart of the poem lies in the center as the poet builds to the final anticlimax. She begins with the Dying Eye searching, followed by three listings: Then it becomes cloudy; and then obscured; and then it is soldered down. Hope diminishes with each step into the final ironic subjunctive.

      - Susan Kornfeld

'Twas just this time, last year, I died

'Twas just this time, last year, I died.

I know I heard the Corn,

When I was carried by the Farms—

It had the Tassels on—

I thought how yellow it would look—

When Richard went to mill—

And then, I wanted to get out,

But something held my will.

I thought just how Red—Apples wedged

The Stubble's joints between—

And the Carts went stooping round the fields

To take the Pumpkins in—

I wondered which would miss me, least,

And when Thanksgiving, came,

If Father'd multiply the plates—

To make an even Sum—

And would it blur the Christmas glee

My Stocking hang too high

For any Santa Claus to reach

The altitude of me—

But this sort, grieved myself,

And so, I thought the other way,

How just this time, some perfect year—

Themself, should come to me –

                                                            F344 (1862)  445

Haven’t we all imagined our death and, sometimes even more satisfactorily, how our family and friends would get on without us? Dickinson pens a poem here on the subject, adopting a pensive autumnal voice as she takes on the persona of a girl who has been dead for a year.

As I write this commentary the pumpkins have ripened into a full and brilliant orange. The pumpkin festival is coming up next weekend and the town will have a parade, a crafts fair, a giant pumpkin weighing, and all kinds of fun. The last of the corn still stands in the field, guarded by some brightly dressed scarecrows.

            It’s a jolly time, yet sad for the bright colors and wonderful harvest produce will soon make way to the more muted colors and chilly dark days of winter. The speaker of the poem—no doubt a child, for she would expect a Christmas stocking—is loath to leave the world at this time. She could hear the corn—and that’s an old saying: so quiet you can hear the corn grow. The stalks still have their silky tassels as if dressed up for the season. The dead girl is carried by the farms on her way to the cemetery and she seems most taken by all the colors: the corn will be very yellow after the farmhand or miller Richard mills it. The apples have fallen among the hay fields, the red fruit “wedged” among the golden straw. She sees the carts “stooping round the fields” as the bright orange pumpkins are harvested.

            All this is consistent with Dickinson’s fascination with the moments after death. For her, the consciousness does not die—at least not right away. Instead it lingers a while on the sights around. Her more famous ones are “I heard a fly buzz when I died,” and “Because I could not stop for death.” In “Dropped into the Ether Acre” she is in a hearse “Riding to meet the Earl.” The sensuousness of these post-death experiences—a buzzing fly, red apples and orange pumpkins, carriage rides—is just about opposite what religious folks might expect. Instead of preparing her soul and contemplating her life, Dickinson and her personas are taking a last long look at the mortal life and world. There is all of eternity to contemplate the soul, heaven, or whatever awaits. We only have the earth for a short time.

            After admiring the cornfields, the speaker wonders if anything of the world will miss her—the familiar farms, fields, and vegetables. This seems to remind her about Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays to come and whether or not her father would put out extra plates so that there wouldn’t be one missing. Likewise, she wonders if her absence will dampen the spirits at Christmas. Her stocking will be way out of reach, even for Santa and his flying reindeer.

            However, this sort of thinking is depressing, even for a dead person. Fortunately, the speaker lights on a happier thought: Some “perfect” time in the future, her family will die and so join her. Now that’s the way to cheer up!

The first Day that I was a Life

The first Day that I was a Life
I recollect it—How still—
That last Day that I was a Life
I recollect it—as well—

'Twas stiller—though the first
Was still—
‘Twas empty—but the first
Was full—

This—was my finallest Occasion—
But then
My tenderer Experiment
Toward Men—

"Which choose I"?
That—I cannot say—
"Which choose They"?
Question Memory!

    

        -Fr823, J902, Fascicle 40, 1864


What an intriguing poem. The mystery of the poem begins with the idea that one could recollect the first day of being “a Life.” Because none of us can remember being born, it leads you to wonder if we are talking about biological life here or something else?       

Is it being born into the world of "Men" we are talking about in this poem, or the first day of being in love? This poem, I think, can be read both ways. Ultimately, For Dickinson, I think "Life" and "Love" are inextricable. (See the last line of the poem directly preceding this one in fascicle 40, which clearly states, "For Life—be Love—")

Either way, speaking of being born as “still” is tremendous. That single word “still” is so powerful. It says so much with so little. The word still, itself, is so still here. I think it is saying something like,  “The earth and time, everything, stood still when I met you.”

The mystery of the poem continues with that recollection of the last day of Life. How could we speak, let alone recollect, after the last day of Life? This is not an unusual impossibility for Dickinson, as several of her poems take this tack. (“I heard a fly buzz when I died.”)

The second stanza is hard to follow syntactically. It goes like this,

(The last day) 'Twas stiller—though the first
Was still—
(And the last day) ‘Twas empty—but the first
Was full—

Or, put into prose, "Though the first day was still, it was full, whereas the last day was empty, which made it even stiller."  In other words, Dickinson is saying that absolute loss (emptiness of death) is even more arresting (still) than absolute gain (fullness of birth.)

The third stanza begins,

This—was my finallest Occasion—

This is a sad poem, but we can smile at the idea of “Finallest.” Is there something finaller than final? The phrase intends to emphasize the finality of finality.  And yet, here we are. It begs the question: if it was the “finallest occasion,” then what occasioned the poem?

I’ll leave that question, and we’ll move on to the next mystery:

But then
My tenderer Experiment
Toward Men—

What is the experiment of living (and dying) as perceived by Dickinson? And does this poem point toward the result of this experiment? I think in the last lines it leaves the result up to the reader.

There is so much here to ponder in this third stanza. Is "Men" meant to be humanity in general? It seems to take this poem into the realm of the super-mythic.

Also, If this experiment is “tenderer,” does that mean there is another possible result of this experiment which is less tender toward men?

The last stanza begins with a question.

"Which choose I"?

It’s possible Dickinson means, which result of the experiment did I choose, being tender toward men, or becoming hardened to them. But since she sets up the dialectic between the full first day of life and the empty last day of life here, she is likely asking which of these she would choose given the choice. But perhaps those two questions are tied together. Again, Love and Life are inextricable. If the emptiness of death is stiller than than the fullness of birth, then I think Dickinson is asking here if it is, possibly, better not to be born, or, to extend the idea, better not to love.

She has asked this question in other poems. There was an earlier one (I can't remember which one exactly) in which she says: wouldn’t I have been better off never to known your love than to have it and then have it taken away? I would’ve never known the terrible difference if I had never known the love.

At any rate she concludes here,

That—I cannot say—

And then she throws the question to the reader, and the implication is that the reader's answer will influence her own,

"Which choose They"?
Question Memory!

This poem elicits so many questions, and then tells you, finally, to question for yourself. Question your memory. What do “They,” meaning “Men,” meaning you, choose?

Do you choose life and love, or do you choose death?

If this is a love poem, then this question is complicated, perhaps, by the idea of a lover choosing to leave a relationship.

"Which choose I? " Well, if this finallest thing has any hope, then I choose to live, but only if you, “They,” can search your memory and see that you too should live, that we should do this thing together.

Question Memory! There is an exclamation point there. The reader, who was probably originally Sue, but is now us, is given an imperative. Check your memory! Can you remember love?!?! If you can, then I can too, and maybe this “experiment” can have a “tenderer” result.

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

Notes:

1. This phrase, “my tenderer Experiment/ Toward Men” reminds me of the “experiment” mentioned in Fr817:

This Consciousness that is aware
Is traversing the interval
Experience between
And most profound experiment
Appointed unto Men —

Will we succeed at love? That seems to be the gist of this "profound experiment." 

2. 

Christanne Miller in her notes on this poem points out that this poem may allude to Philippians 1:21-23: "For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain. But if I live in the flesh, this is the fruit of my labour: yet what I shall choose I wot not. For I am in a strait betwixt two, having a desire to depart, and to be with Christ; which is far better."

I could die — to know —

I could die — to know —
'Tis a trifling knowledge —
News-Boys salute the Door —
Carts — joggle by —
Morning's bold face — stares in the window —
Were but mine — the Charter of the least Fly —

Houses hunch the House
With their Brick Shoulders —
Coals — from a Rolling Load — rattle — how — near —
To the very Square — His foot is passing —
Possibly, this moment —
While I — dream — Here —
                                              F537 (1863)  J570

Mornings are busy at the Dickinson Homestead. The paper boys "salute" the door (is this a droll way of saying they throw the paper against the door just as they do today?) with the morning news, carts "joggle" by with their loads, coals rattle on and off their conveyance. Meanwhile the morning sun stares in the poet's window and neighboring houses hunch against hers as if hemming her in. 

Coal carts being loaded for delivery

      Amid all this daily hustle and bustle our poet is dreaming of her beloved. She is dying to know where he is right now – trifling knowledge indeed since he is probably on his way to work. She is particularly frustrated because even the "least Fly" could buzz around and find him if it wanted. Alas, as a Victorian woman, she must content herself with dreams. Fortunately this quaint habit of female rectitude has long gone by the wayside. 
      But Dickinson often prefers to imagine and dream rather than dive into the real. She refused to see Samuel Bowles once when he came calling, despite her likely deep affection for him – and her copious output of letters and poems directed to him. She refused to marry Judge Lord despite a similar deep affection for him. In several previous poems she writes of deferring love and union until some afterlife. (Other times, she admits skepticism that such union would ever take place.) Perhaps most strikingly, she went for about thirteen years without visiting her childhood best friend, sister-in-law, and next door neighbor Sue –a dear beloved despite their fallings out and estrangements – all the while sending her notes and writing poems to and about her. 

This is a delightfully vivid poem and Dickinson writes with a light touch. We have the busy-ness of carts and paperboys contrasted with the staring sun and hunching houses with their marvelous "Brick Shoulders". Is the speaker going to go out in the world or hunker down with the hunching and staring? The last line, "While I – dream – Here ¬–" is a clear indication she is going to stay home. The line is drawn out with dashes and long vowels. It is a dreamy, staying-put line, wistful but not unhappy.