Poems, Third Series, by Emily Dickinson

Source of book: I own this     

 

I have previously written about Emily Dickinson, one of my very first poetic loves, and about this collection of her poetry - the first new book I ever purchased with my own money. You can read those posts here:

 

Poems, First Series

Poems, Second Series

This time around, I read the poems in the “third series.” These three, plus The Single Hound, and her essays are in my edition. I have noted before that I am not certain if all of her poems are in this book - there may be some which were not published by her family and came to light later. Also, it is a shame that this book has the “corrected” punctuation rather than the original dashes. But other than that, it is a rather lovely edition, and I have never regretted buying it. 

 

Like the other series, this one is divided into topical sections of Life, Love, Nature, and Time and Eternity. These are rather arbitrary - so many poems could legitimately fit into more than one - or even all - of the categories. But whatever. There are better things to do than worry about the choices Dickinson’s family made - at least they preserved and published her wonderful poems. 

 

As always, choosing which poems to feature in a post is an impossible task. So many are really great, and a lot spoke to me this time through. (Whenever I re-read poetry, I find that different poems stand out. It all depends on where my life journey has taken me recently.) 

 

Dickinson’s poems are not named, although they are numbered in the collections. I will present them as they were originally written - no names, no numbers, and, if I can find them, with the appropriate dashes. 

 

This one is used as the prelude to the book, published in 1896. 

 

It's all I have to bring today—
This, and my heart beside—
This, and my heart, and all the fields—
And all the meadows wide—
Be sure you count—should I forget
Some one the sum could tell—
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.

 

The quintessential Dickinson poem on nature and love. 

 

Forbidden Fruit a flavor has

That lawful Orchards mocks—

How luscious lies within the Pod

The Pea that Duty locks—

 

That is a twist you don’t see too often. I think one of Dickinson’s superpowers is the unexpected metaphor, the way of seeing nature as a microcosm for life in a way that no one else could have thought of. 

 

Even the poems that are not in the “Time and Eternity” section often seem haunted by death. The reason is no mystery. Dickinson wrote the bulk of her poems during the Civil War, a period in which more Americans were killed (proportional to population) than in all our other wars combined. This one is truly haunting:

 

My life closed twice before its close—
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

 

Dickinson was fairly agnostic about the afterlife, hoping for it to exist, but unsure that it did. In any event, she clearly did not envision hellfire as real, presumably for the same reasons that most truly ethical people find it morally indefensible. Those last two lines, though. Man. 

 

This next one most of us first read in grade school. That doesn’t lessen its power, particularly for those of us who love reading. 

 

There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away

Nor any Coursers like a Page

Of prancing Poetry –

This Traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of Toll –

How frugal is the Chariot

That bears the Human Soul –

 

This next one makes me think of our own time, when, as in the days of the Civil War, people are willing to kill or even die for the right to oppress and brutalize others. Then, as now, theology was wielded as a weapon to destroy human empathy, to justify the unjustifiable as somehow the will of God. 

 

A face devoid of love or grace,

A hateful, hard, successful face,

A face with which a stone

Would feel as thoroughly at ease

As were they old acquaintances --

First time together thrown.                                                                

 

Think of this when you see yet another response to murdered children along the lines of “well, we just homeschool our kid.” That face devoid of love or grace. Hateful and hard. And, of course, successful. “I got mine, sucks to be you.” A pathological lack of empathy. 

 

The opposite of this is another poem, which showcases Dickinson’s own deep soul, and her fathomless empathy. 

 

I measure every Grief I meet

With narrow, probing, eyes – 

I wonder if It weighs like Mine – 

Or has an Easier size.

 

I wonder if They bore it long – 

Or did it just begin – 

I could not tell the Date of Mine – 

It feels so old a pain – 

 

I wonder if it hurts to live – 

And if They have to try – 

And whether – could They choose between – 

It would not be – to die – 

 

I note that Some – gone patient long – 

At length, renew their smile –  

An imitation of a Light

That has so little Oil – 

 

I wonder if when Years have piled –  

Some Thousands – on the Harm –  

That hurt them early – such a lapse

Could give them any Balm –  

 

Or would they go on aching still

Through Centuries of Nerve – 

Enlightened to a larger Pain –  

In Contrast with the Love –  

 

The Grieved – are many – I am told –  

There is the various Cause –  

Death – is but one – and comes but once –  

And only nails the eyes –  

 

There's Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –  

A sort they call "Despair" –  

There's Banishment from native Eyes – 

In sight of Native Air –  

 

And though I may not guess the kind –  

Correctly – yet to me

A piercing Comfort it affords

In passing Calvary –  

 

To note the fashions – of the Cross –  

And how they're mostly worn –  

Still fascinated to presume

That Some – are like my own – 

 

Compare what Dickinson says of the Cross, compared to the sociopathic view of God that Penal Substitutionary Atonement requires. Suffering with humanity, not consumed with insatiable hatred that can only be quenched by human sacrifice. 

 

I love this one too:

 

I worked for chaff, and earning wheat
Was haughty and betrayed.
What right had fields to arbitrate
In matters ratified?

I tasted wheat, — and hated chaff,

And thanked the ample friend;

Wisdom is more becoming viewed

At distance than at hand.

 

Again with the twist, with the unexpected point of view. As she herself put it, telling the truth but telling it slant. The next one is plenty haunting, a punch in a velvet glove.

 

We outgrow love like other things

  And put it in the drawer,

Till it an antique fashion shows

  Like costumes grandsires wore.

 

We are almost done with March this year, and April is on its way. It has been, at least here in California, one of the wildest Marches in my lifetime, with an incredible amount of rain, wind, and snow. Anyway, this poem seemed fitting for the turn of the month. I just love it. 

 

Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
I hoped for you before—
Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—

Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me—
I have so much to tell—

 

I got your Letter, and the Birds—
The Maples never knew

That you were coming—I declare –

How Red their Faces grew—
But March, forgive me—
And all those Hills

You left for me to Hue—
There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—

 

Who knocks? That April—
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied—
But trifles look so trivial
 As soon as you have come

That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—

 

I have always been the sort that liked creepy-crawly things, including spiders. Dickinson too liked the less beloved parts of nature - the weeds, the insects, the snakes, and the like. This poem is one of many that expresses that love. 

 

The Spider as an Artist

Has never been employed—

Though his surpassing Merit

Is freely certified

 

By every Broom and Bridget

Throughout a Christian Land—

Neglected Son of Genius

I take thee by the Hand—

 

This next poem is special to me because it was one of the first Dickinson poems I discovered as a child. As I have grown to middle age, I have come to appreciate even more how finely crafted it is. A mere six lines that contain a world. Not primarily the prairie at its micro level, but the world of the mind. 

 

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee.
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.

 

Since I started chasing birds with my camera, one of my favorite sorts to photograph has been the woodpecker. Or rather, the dozen species I have (so far) managed to photograph. They are better at posing than some birds, but still very active, leading to more blurred photos than good ones. But they are also quite beautiful, and an essential part of the forest ecosystem. Dickinson apparently liked them too.

 

His Bill an Auger is,

His Head, a Cap and Frill.

He laboreth at every Tree

A Worm, His utmost Goal.

 

Here is another one, one of my all time favorites. We do not get lightning nearly as often where I live as I would like, so it is fun when we do. But, like most of Dickinson’s nature poems, this one also has a deeper psychological level. Enjoy. 

 

It struck me—every Day—

The Lightning was as new

As if the Cloud that instant slit

And let the Fire through—

 

It burned Me—in the Night—

It Blistered to My Dream—

It sickened fresh upon my sight—

With every Morn that came—

 

I thought that Storm—was brief—

The Maddest—quickest by—

But Nature lost the Date of This—

And left it in the Sky—

 

This next one is the introvert’s theme song. Particularly the introvert who loves to explore. I have felt this way often. 

 

Could I but ride indefinite

As doth the Meadow Bee

And visit only where I liked

And No man visit me

 

And flirt all Day with Buttercups

And marry whom I may

And dwell a little everywhere

Or better, run away

 

With no Police to follow

Or chase me if I do

Till I should jump Peninsulas

To get away from you—

 

I said "But just to be a Bee"

Upon a Raft of Air

And row in Nowhere all Day long

And anchor "off the Bar"

What Liberty! So Captives deem

Who tight in Dungeons are.

 

There are a lot of poems about death, but I think this one is the most unexpected take on the subject. 

 

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 -

 

Seriously, could anyone but Emily Dickinson have written that? Or thought of that? 

 

The last one is one of those poems that takes your breath away. It is thoroughly devastating, yet so profoundly true. Dickinson wrote about grief and trauma as well as any poet in history, in my opinion. Housed in her simple lines lies a depth of meaning and truth that never fails to astonish me. 

 

They say that 'time assuages,'--

Time never did assuage;

An actual suffering strengthens,

As sinews do, with age.

 

Time is a test of trouble,

But not a remedy.

If such it prove, it prove too

There was no malady. 

 

There are so many poets I love - and others I haven’t discovered but will love when I do - but I think there was something in my childhood self that knew, even if he couldn’t explain why, that Emily Dickinson was something special, and someone who would always speak to my soul.