Christmas Poems 2019

This is my fourth (kind of) annual Christmas Poem post. I never got around to writing one last year You can read the others here:

Christmas Poems 2015

Christmas Poems 2016

Christmas Poems 2017

And on a related note, last year’s Christmas Carol post.

Other posts on Christmas:

The Christmas Wars, Or, How To Use Christmas As An Excuse To Be A Jerk

Night Shift At The Hospital on Christmas Eve

The Haunted Man by Charles Dickens

Reading A Christmas Carol With My Kids

Gloria

Magnificat

***

Let’s get things started with this jem from the incomparable Emily Dickinson, one of my favorite poets. Few poets can capture the details of nature in such brilliant fashion, and this poem exhibits her talent at its best. Most of my life, I have lived in places without show (well, except for that freak storm in 1999…), but I remember those few years living in the mountains with fondness. (And we still go places with snow, of course.) See if this poem doesn’t bring to life the amazing reality of a fresh snowfall. 

It sifts from Leaden Sieves -

It powders all the Wood.

It fills with Alabaster Wool

The Wrinkles of the Road -

It makes an even Face

Of Mountain, and of Plain -

Unbroken Forehead from the East

Unto the East again -

It reaches to the Fence -

It wraps it Rail by Rail

Till it is lost in Fleeces -

It deals Celestial Vail

To Stump, and Stack - and Stem -

A Summer’s empty Room -

Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,

Recordless, but for them -

It Ruffles Wrists of Posts

As Ankles of a Queen -

Then stills it’s Artisans - like Ghosts -

Denying they have been -

A hike in the woods during a snowstorm.

 Sequoia National Park, May 2019

This next poem was one I discovered just a few months ago, while reading the sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay. That whole collection was a revelation, and rapidly became one of my favorite volumes. 

Millay wasn’t particularly religious, but wrote on religious themes. This one really hit home for me, where Christmas is everywhere and in one’s face, but little of Christ can be seen, particularly from those who speak his name the loudest. Christ has become a prop, an idol to be used to justify cruelty and hate. 

The sonnet form is used to perfect effect by Millay. The first quatrain encapsulates the commercialism contrasting with the reality of the first Christmas. The second is a snapshot of the fake religiosity that ignores the gospel. I can’t decide if the preacher is part of the problem or just ignored. “Honey and steel” certainly seems like the worst of professional preachers. The shift then occurs in line nine, as it should. The two tercets present the devastating reality. Nobody listens; the words mean less than the wind. Christ is in effect, dead, as he has had no effect. It’s not very optimistic, to say the least. But it sure fits our own times. 

To Jesus on His Birthday

For this your mother sweated in the cold,

For this you bled upon the bitter tree:

A yard of tinsel ribbon bought and sold;

A paper wreath; a day at home for me.

The merry bells ring out, the people kneel;

Up goes the man of God before the crowd;

With voice of honey and with eyes of steel

He drones your humble gospel to the proud.

Nobody listens. Less than the wind that blows

Are all your words to us you died to save.

O Prince of Peace! O Sharon's dewy Rose!

How mute you lie within your vaulted grave.

The stone the angel rolled away with tears

Is back upon your mouth these thousand years.

This next poem is an excerpt from a longer poem. A MUCH longer poem. As in, about two thirds the size of Paradise Lost. I haven’t read the whole thing yet, but now I really want to. This particular part really spoke to me. W. H. Auden paints such a realistic picture of the post-Christmas experience. I can’t even decide what I like best. Maybe the “we have seen the actual Vision and failed /  To do more than entertain it as an agreeable / Possibility” line? Or the part about going back to materialistic assumptions? Or perhaps the last few lines. Hot dang, those are good. This is just a great poem, any way you slice it.  

Excerpt from For the Time Being

Well, so that is that. Now we must dismantle the tree,

Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes –

Some have got broken – and carrying them up to the attic.

The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt,

And the children got ready for school. There are enough

Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week –

Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,

Stayed up so late, attempted – quite unsuccessfully –

To love all of our relatives, and in general

Grossly overestimated our powers. Once again

As in previous years we have seen the actual Vision and failed

To do more than entertain it as an agreeable

Possibility, once again we have sent Him away,

Begging though to remain His disobedient servant,

The promising child who cannot keep His word for long.

The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory,

And already the mind begins to be vaguely aware

Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought

Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all, now

Be very far off. But, for the time being, here we all are,

Back in the moderate Aristotelian city

Of darning and the Eight-Fifteen, where Euclid's geometry

And Newton's mechanics would account for our experience,

And the kitchen table exists because I scrub it.

It seems to have shrunk during the holidays. The streets

Are much narrower than we remembered; we had forgotten

The office was as depressing as this. To those who have seen

The Child, however dimly, however incredulously,

The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all.

For the innocent children who whispered so excitedly

Outside the locked door where they knew the presents to be

Grew up when it opened. Now, recollecting that moment

We can repress the joy, but the guilt remains conscious;

Remembering the stable where for once in our lives

Everything became a You and nothing was an It. 

I’m going to call my choice of four poems a tradition. Hey, four years is enough to make a tradition, right? I’ll end with Paul Laurence Dunbar. After the kind of bitter taste of the two preceding poems, Dunbar’s exuberance and joy is refreshing. This, despite living in less-than-ideal circumstances. (Despite his education and obvious talent, he had to work as an elevator operator most of his life - Jim Crow and racism in action.) This is the ultimate hope of Christmas - that one day, all will be restored, healed, and made new. Ring out, ye bells indeed!  

Christmas Carol

  Ring out, ye bells!

   All Nature swells

With gladness at the wondrous story,—

   The world was lorn,

   But Christ is born

To change our sadness into glory.

   Sing, earthlings, sing!

   To-night a King

Hath come from heaven's high throne to bless us.

   The outstretched hand

   O'er all the land

Is raised in pity to caress us.

   Come at his call;

   Be joyful all;

Away with mourning and with sadness!

   The heavenly choir

   With holy fire

Their voices raise in songs of gladness.

   The darkness breaks

   And Dawn awakes,

Her cheeks suffused with youthful blushes.

   The rocks and stones

   In holy tones

Are singing sweeter than the thrushes.

   Then why should we

   In silence be,

When Nature lends her voice to praises;

   When heaven and earth

   Proclaim the truth

Of Him for whom that lone star blazes?

   No, be not still,

   But with a will

Strike all your harps and set them ringing;

   On hill and heath

   Let every breath

Throw all its power into singing!

Poems Second Series by Emily Dickinson

Source of book: I own this.

Although I have been a used book shopper since childhood (it runs in the family), I didn’t spend my hard-earned money on a new book until my teens.

The very first new book I purchased myself was this one - a Courage Classics hardback edition of Emily Dickinson’s Collected Poems. Dickinson was my first poetic love (followed immediately thereafter by Christina Rossetti.) I can even remember the first poem that spoke to me in that way - my first time, so to speak. It was Dickinson’s “The Bee,” contained in the poetry volume of The Junior Classics - a collection I still own. (Okay, I basically stole it from my parents…) That opening line, “Like trains of cars on tracks of plush” is still amazing. I believe I wrote something for a school assignment about it at one point. But anyway, I knew the moment I read it that I loved Dickinson and always would.

While I have read from this book many times before, I didn’t really start to sit down and systematically read through my poetry collection until 2010, when I started writing about my reading. I decided that the occasional browsing was nice enough, but too sporadic and unfocused to really plumb the depths of the poetic tradition. Since that time, my book pile on the nightstand has contained a volume of poetry, and most nights when I read, I start off with a few pages of poetry. Best of all are the evenings when the kids are in bed, and Amanda is either working, reading in the library, or knitting while streaming something. Because then I can read aloud and hear the cadence of the language roll off of me.

My particular collection of Dickinson is perhaps not the best. It follows the pattern of the early publications, and contains “the first four” of her collections as they were released. (First Series, Second Series, Third Series, and The Single Hound, plus her essays.) Unfortunately, it also follows the original editions in “fixing” her punctuation to match 19th Century standards. Thus, the dashes are replaced by boring commas and periods. I am not certain if the book contains all her poems or not, or how many are missing. But, it is a hardback, and must contain at least 500 or so poems - I haven’t yet found a poem that isn’t in there, so it may be complete. Also, it was affordable to a teen, and was in stock at the local independent bookstore. So I definitely do not regret getting it.

Each of the first three books are subdivided into sections: Life, Love, Nature, and Time and Eternity. Not all poems fit cleanly into these categories, of course, and I found a few that I thought would have fit better in other places. But blame Dickinson’s sister and later editors for the groupings. You can read my thoughts on the First Series of poems here.

Here are the poems which stood out to me most this time. It was difficult to narrow it down to this few, because so many are profound and meaningful to me. Throughout, I have used the numbering in my collection. Dickinson did not give her poems titles - those were supplied later. I have attempted to find versions online with the correct dashes wherever possible.

Life I.

I’m Nobody! Who are you?

Are you – Nobody – too?

Then there’s a pair of us!

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

How dreary – to be – Somebody!

How public – like a Frog –  

To tell one’s name – the livelong June –  

To an admiring Bog!

I have to wonder if Dr. Seuss had this in mind with Yertle the Turtle. While I am not quite as introverted as Dickinson, I share her dislike of celebrity.

This one is a bit of a gem. Every time I read it, I am struck with a renewed wonder at its depth of perception.

Life VI.

We play at paste,

Till qualified for pearl,

Then drop the paste,

And deem ourself a fool.

The shapes, though, were similar,       

And our new hands

Learned gem-tactics

Practising sands.

Or how about this one:

Life IX.

I can wade grief,

Whole pools of it,—

I ’m used to that.

But the least push of joy

Breaks up my feet,        

And I tip—drunken.

Let no pebble smile,

’T was the new liquor,—

That was all!    

Power is only pain,        

Stranded, through discipline,

Till weights will hang.

Give balm to giants,

And they ’ll wilt, like men.

Give Himmaleh,—        

They ’ll carry him!

This one bears a bit of pondering. I’m not sure whether I agree or not - for me. Dickinson’s own experience is another thing altogether. But the idea that we can move impossible mountains - but not handle joy - has a certain deeper truth in it.

Life XXXV.

EACH life converges to some centre

Expressed or still;

Exists in every human nature

A goal,    

Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,        

Too fair

For credibility’s temerity

To dare.    

Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,

To reach        

Were hopeless as the rainbow’s raiment

To touch,    

Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;

How high

Unto the saints’ slow diligence        

The sky!    

Ungained, it may be, by a life’s low venture,

But then,

Eternity enables the endeavoring

Again.

There are so many good things going on in this poem. The message, of course, is amazing. The language is evocative. But notice too the form. The odd lines all end with a feminine rhyme. The even lines (except for the second) consist of a single iamb. These lines are therefore emphasized, drawing out the key meaning from each couplet. The poet also chooses either four or five feet for the longer lines, and as far as I can tell, there is no specific pattern intended. The length, though, does dictate exactly how contrasting the short lines are, and thus how much emphasis they get when read aloud.

Moving on to the poems in the “Love” section, here is one which imagines marriage as a shockingly mutual transaction. Dickinson uses the language of commerce to describe what is so obviously not transactional. This is metaphor that rises to the level of a paradox.

Love IV.

I gave myself to him,

And took himself for pay.

The solemn contract of a life

Was ratified this way.    

The wealth might disappoint,        

Myself a poorer prove

Than this great purchaser suspect,

The daily own of Love    

Depreciate the vision;

But, till the merchant buy,     

Still fable, in the isles of spice,

The subtle cargoes lie.    

At least, ’t is mutual risk,—

Some found it mutual gain;

Sweet debt of Life,—each night to owe,        

Insolvent, every noon.

Not too bad for a woman who appears to have never had a romantic relationship - and indeed seemed ill at ease around other humans.

Dickinson’s nature poems have always thrilled me. She spent hours in her garden, and clearly had a keen eye for detail. Many of these struck me as quotable, but I had to pick just my favorites of this reading.

Nature XIII.

ONE of the ones that Midas touched,

Who failed to touch us all,

Was that confiding prodigal,

The blissful oriole.    

So drunk, he disavows it        

With badinage divine;

So dazzling, we mistake him

For an alighting mine.    

A pleader, a dissembler,

An epicure, a thief,—     

Betimes an oratorio,

An ecstasy in chief;    

The Jesuit of orchards,

He cheats as he enchants

Of an entire attar       

For his decamping wants.    

The splendor of a Burmah,

The meteor of birds,

Departing like a pageant

Of ballads and of bards.        

I never thought that Jason sought

For any golden fleece;

But then I am a rural man,

With thoughts that make for peace.    

But if there were a Jason,     

Tradition suffer me

Behold his lost emolument

Upon the apple-tree.

I don’t know exactly which species of oriole inspired this poem, but it fits both of the common species in my part of the world. Such as this Hooded Oriole I captured at Cesar Chavez National Monument.

“A Narrow Fellow In The Grass” is definitely one of Dickinson’s best known poems. For good reason, as it captures a moment so memorably.

Nature XXIV.

A narrow Fellow in the Grass

Occasionally rides -

You may have met him? Did you not

His notice instant is -

The Grass divides as with a Comb,

A spotted Shaft is seen,

And then it closes at your Feet

And opens further on -

He likes a Boggy Acre -  

A Floor too cool for Corn -

But when a Boy and Barefoot

I more than once at Noon

Have passed I thought a Whip Lash

Unbraiding in the Sun

When stooping to secure it

It wrinkled And was gone -

Several of Nature’s People

I know, and they know me

I feel for them a transport

Of Cordiality

But never met this Fellow

Attended or alone

Without a tighter Breathing

And Zero at the Bone.

One of the most memorable moments of my own life is the solar eclipse of 2017 - which the kids and I traveled to eastern Oregon to view. There is absolutely nothing like it, and I highly recommend seeing one if you possibly can. Dickinson wrote a total of four poems that mention eclipses. I was unable to determine if she ever saw one in person, but I did turn up an interesting connection. Mabel Loomis Todd is best known for editing and publishing Dickinson’s poems. But she was also a skilled science writer. Married to a philandering astronomer, she was well versed (and experienced) in eclipses - she wrote an entire book on them. (She also had a long affair with Dickinson’s brother, so that was how they came to know each other…) So, it is possible that Dickinson based her eclipse poems not on her own experience, but that of her friend. Whatever the case, I think that she captured something of the feel of an eclipse in this poem.

Nature XXXIV.

It sounded as if the Streets were running

And then - the Streets stood still -

Eclipse - was all we could see at the Window

And Awe - was all we could feel.

By and by - the boldest stole out of his Covert

To see if Time was there -

Nature was in an Opal Apron,

Mixing fresher Air.

The next poem describes a storm - I quote it here mostly for the fantastic description of lightning as a beak and a claw.

Nature XXXVII.

The wind begun to rock the grass

With threatening tunes and low,--

He flung a menace at the earth,

A menace at the sky.

The leaves unhooked themselves from trees

And started all abroad;

The dust did scoop itself like hands

And throw away the road.

The wagons quickened on the streets,

The thunder hurried slow;

The lightning showed a yellow beak,

And then a livid claw.

The birds put up the bars to nests,

The cattle fled to barns;

There came one drop of giant rain,

And then, as if the hands

That held the dams had parted hold,

The waters wrecked the sky

But overlooked my father's house,

Just quartering a tree.

I want to end with a couple of the “Time and Eternity” poems. These too are usually excellent. Dickinson thought about death a lot, and had a rather agnostic view of eternity. I have heard the term used “The Big Perhaps,” which might be a less poetic version of “The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn / No traveller returns” but is a pretty good description nonetheless. Even for those of us who believe in an afterlife, those of us who think carefully and deeply have to admit that we have less certainty about this than we often pretend. Dickinson likewise left things pretty ambiguous in her poems. Which is one reason they feel so timeless. While she often alludes to eternity, more of her poems on death focus on those left behind, as in this gem.

Time and Eternity XIII.

DEATH sets a thing significant

The eye had hurried by,

Except a perished creature

Entreat us tenderly    

To ponder little workmanships        

In crayon or in wool,

With “This was last her fingers did,”

Industrious until    

The thimble weighed too heavy,

The stitches stopped themselves,      

And then ’t was put among the dust

Upon the closet shelves.    

A book I have, a friend gave,

Whose pencil, here and there,

Had notched the place that pleased him,—        

At rest his fingers are.    

Now, when I read, I read not,

For interrupting tears

Obliterate the etchings

Too costly for repairs.

This last one is just fantastic. It is sure a vast distance from the pleasant and accessible nature poems. Between the unorthodox meter and the gothic language and the insight into our darkest selves, this is one reason that I keep returning to Dickinson. I almost don’t even want to comment further on it, so I will just leave it here. Enjoy.

Time and Eternity XXIX.

One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted—

One need not be a House—

The Brain has Corridors—surpassing

Material Place—

       

Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting

External Ghost

Than its interior Confronting—

That Cooler Host.

       

Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,

The Stones a'chase—

Than Unarmed, one's a'self encounter—

In lonesome Place—

       

Ourself behind ourself, concealed—

Should startle most—

Assassin hid in our Apartment

Be Horror's least.

   

The Body—borrows a Revolver—

He bolts the Door—

O'erlooking a superior spectre—

Or More—

Poems - First Series, by Emily Dickinson

Source of book: I own this. One of my favorite books.

Emily Dickinson’s poems were largely unknown during her lifetime, as she avoided the public eye. After her death, her relatives released them in installments, and they eventually came to be regarded as some of the greatest poems of the 19th Century.

I wrote about the first part of the first series a few years ago, before I started this blog. I recently read the second part of the first series, so I have combined the two reviews.

There are three main series of poems, and each is divided into four sections: Life, Love, Nature, Time and Eternity. These are rather arbitrary divisions, of course.

My original review covered the Life and Love sections of series one, and was posted on Facebook on March 27, 2011.

***

In my mid teens, I purchased my first new book. Of course, I had been given books, new and used, for all of my life. I had even purchased used books (following my mom’s pattern) since I had disposable income of my own. However, a purchase of a brand new book, at full price, was a major event, not to be entered into lightly.

My choice was a hardcover edition of Emily Dickinson’s poems. I had taken a fancy to Dickinson in elementary school, after reading “The Bee.” I was drawn to the regular meter combined with unusual use of approximate rhyme, the themes of life and nature, and most of all the striking word pictures that came from a unique imagination. In those pre-internet days, I found a few others in various collections, but never more than one or two at a time. After careful consideration, I laid my hard earned money on the counter and walked out with a purchase I have never regretted.

For my ongoing poetry project, I am systematically reading through my poetry collection (and supplementing from the library). In this case, as with Robert Frost, I am to a large degree re-reading. It is interesting to return to a poet after a break of five years or a decade. I also had not sat down and simply read in sequence. I would tend to browse. Perhaps I would open the book randomly on a rainy evening and read a dozen total from here and there.

In this case, I chose to start at the beginning and read two sections. My book contains three poem entitled Series 1, 2, and 3, plus The Single Hound, a later collection. This is 576 poems (they are conveniently numbered within each section), a fraction of the 1800 or so she wrote. However, I am unclear as to whether the others were published or not, as I cannot find an online reference beyond these four collections.

The first three collections are further subdivided into four parts each, entitled “Life”, “Love”, “Nature”, and “Time and Eternity”. The fourth collection is undivided. I read the poems in the “Life” and “Love” sections of Series One.

Dickinson still speaks to me every bit as much as she did as a child and as a young man. To a certain degree, poets are by their nature introverts. Dickinson was probably the pinnacle of introversion – her entire world was contained within a few miles, and she spent much of her life in the company of a few close friends. Her poems speak to and about this inner life of the soul.

I would be tempted to quote the majority of the poems in this note, but perhaps I can encourage discovery by a small taste.

Life XXI

He ate and drank the precious Words --

His Spirit grew robust --

He knew no more that he was poor,

Nor that his frame was Dust --

He danced along the dingy Days

And this Bequest of Wings

Was but a Book -- What Liberty

A loosened spirit brings –

Typical for Dickinson, she ignores the rules of punctuation, using dashes for nearly every situation. Another poem with a similar theme begins thus:

Life X

A precious—mouldering pleasure—'tis—

To meet an Antique Book—

In just the Dress his Century wore—

A privilege—I think—

In this selection, the rhyme is approximate at best, with sometimes the even lines rhyming, sometimes the odd lines, but never both. The meter is fairly regular, so, even to a child, it “feels” like poetry.

Most of these poems are written in quatrains, but there are some exceptions.

Life VI

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

I recall this one from my childhood. At the time, I missed that she used exactly seven lines – the Hebrew number of perfection. Perhaps for the same reason, X, above, has seven stanzas – the perfection perhaps of a book dating to when the author was alive.

Dickinson took the standard poet’s device of using a metaphor from nature to express feelings of love and stood it on its head. No other poet was as fascinated by insects as she. No other would have bracketed a love poem by a fly and a bee.

Love VI

If you were coming in the fall,

I'd brush the summer by

With half a smile and half a spurn,

As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year,

I'd wind the months in balls,

And put them each in separate drawers,

Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed,

I'd count them on my hand,

Subtracting till my fingers dropped

Into Van Diemen's land.

If certain, when this life was out,

That yours and mine should be,

I'd toss it yonder like a rind,

And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length

Of time's uncertain wing,

It goads me, like the goblin bee,

That will not state its sting.

A thoroughly delicious poem. I’ll conclude with two of my favorites about the inner life. The first resonates with me as the introvert’s description of pain and grief. Those who naturally are able to gain relief from the sharing of pain with others really do not understand what it is like for those of us that must expend energy to bare our souls to others. Dickinson lost several of her friends to disease at young ages, and this poem is the fruit of that pain.

Life XIX

Pain has an element of blank;

It cannot recollect

When it began, or if there were

A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,

Its infinite realms contain

Its past, enlightened to perceive

New periods of pain.

To counter the bitter taste of that one, here is one to provoke thought.

Life XI

Much Madness is divinest Sense —

To a discerning Eye —

Much Sense — the starkest Madness —

’Tis the Majority

In this, as All, prevail —

Assent — and you are sane —

Demur — you’re straightway dangerous —

And handled with a Chain —

Dickinson’s poems are all in the public domain, and therefore available for free all over the internet. However, I recommend the purchase of a real, tangible book. Believe me, you will not regret it.

***

More recently, I finished reading through the “Nature” and “Time and Eternity” sections of the first series. Here are my thoughts.

In addition to my introduction to Dickinson, mentioned above, there are numerous poems on the topic of bees. I am not surprised that Dickinson found them fascinating, because I likewise have always found the various members of Hymenoptera to be full of interest. The large carpenter bees that frequent my part of the world, are, in particular, both frightening and fascinating. They are large and therefore scary, but also gentle and tame, to the point that one may touch them without fear. (My brother had the courage to do this, not me.) Dickinson found them to be a remarkably fertile source of philosophical musing. If anything, her poems seem better to me now than they did as a child.

Nature V

The pedigree of honey

Does not concern the bee;

A clover, any time, to him

Is aristocracy.

Such a short little thought, but there is so much in it. And what of the poem that first caused me to fall in love with Dickinson?

Nature XV

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush

I hear the level bee:

A jar across the flowers goes,

Their velvet masonry

Withstands until the sweet assault

Their chivalry consumes,

While he, victorious, tilts away

To vanquish other blooms.

His feet are shod with gauze,

His helmet is of gold;

His breast, a single onyx

With chrysoprase, inlaid.

His labor is a chant,

His idleness a tune;

Oh, for a bee's experience

Of clovers and of noon!                        

Nearly thirty years later, I still thrill when I read it. Or what about this classic?

Nature IX

The Grass so little has to do –

A Sphere of simple Green –

With only Butterflies to brood

And Bees to entertain –

And stir all day to pretty Tunes

The Breezes fetch along –

And hold the Sunshine in its lap

And bow to everything –

And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls –

And make itself so fine

A Duchess were too common

For such a noticing –

And even when it dies – to pass

In Odors so divine –

Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep –

Or Spikenards, perishing –

And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell –

And dream the Days away,

The Grass so little has to do

I wish I were a Hay –

The attention given to this seemingly insignificant bit of nature - the grass - reminds me of the similar treatment given by Albrecht Durer in one of my favorite paintings. (It graces the wall of my office.)

I might mention a few more that I feel fit my own feelings.

Nature XXI

The Mountain sat upon the Plain

In his tremendous Chair—

His observation omnifold,

His inquest, everywhere—

The Seasons played around his knees

Like Children round a sire—

Grandfather of the Days is He

Of Dawn, the Ancestor—                        

I love to hike to the top of mountains. Because they are there. And because of the great views from the top. Dickinson may not have done much climbing, but I think she understood. And she understood too the way that God speaks to us, not just from the pulpit in church, but from experience out in nature. As my dad put it, when we would spend a Sunday scuba diving, God has an underwater cathedral too.

    Nature VI

                                    

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –

I keep it, staying at Home –

With a Bobolink for a Chorister –

And an Orchard, for a Dome –

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice –

I, just wear my Wings –

And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,

Our little Sexton – sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman –

And the sermon is never long,

So instead of getting to Heaven, at last –

I’m going, all along.

               

There is no doubt of Dickinson’s eye for nature and its glories. But she also had a keen mind when it came to death, that “undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn / No traveller returns.”

Eternity VII

Exultation is the going

Of an inland soul to sea,

Past the houses—past the headlands—

Into deep Eternity—

Bred as we, among the mountains,

Can the sailor understand

The divine intoxication

Of the first league out from land?        

It was difficult to pick just one poem on this topic. The entire section is fantastic, and well worth the small amount of time invested.

Dickinson also had an ear for the morbid half-joke. My wife is an ICU nurse, and she deals with death on a daily basis. If you want to hear the worst and best of gallows humor, talk to a nurse. Believe me on this one. (The two favorite suggestions for t-shirts for the ICU were “He’s Only Mostly Dead” and a picture of the defibrillator paddles with “You Say Goodbye, We Say Hello.” Alas, management nixed these excellent ideas…)

Anyway, I really liked this one:

Time and Eternity XII

I like a look of Agony,

Because I know it's true—

Men do not sham Convulsion,

Nor simulate, a Throe—

The Eyes glaze once—and that is Death—

Impossible to feign

The Beads upon the Forehead

By homely Anguish strung.                             

Should one laugh or cry? What about this one, about the banality of death?

Time and Eternity XX

The last Night that She lived

It was a Common Night

Except the Dying—this to Us

Made Nature different

We noticed smallest things—

Things overlooked before

By this great light upon our Minds

Italicized—as 'twere.

As We went out and in

Between Her final Room

And Rooms where Those to be alive

Tomorrow were, a Blame

That Others could exist

While She must finish quite

A Jealousy for Her arose

So nearly infinite—

We waited while She passed—

It was a narrow time—

Too jostled were Our Souls to speak

At length the notice came.

She mentioned, and forgot—

Then lightly as a Reed

Bent to the Water, struggled scarce—

Consented, and was dead—

And We—We placed the Hair—

And drew the Head erect—

And then an awful leisure was

Belief to regulate—

I wrote last summer about the death of a couple of my friends. Reading through this one was a bit rough. Because those days were ordinary. Except for death. Dickinson was a genius.

But she also had hope. Here are two of my favorites on that theme:

Time and Eternity XXIX

I shall know why, when time is over,

And I have ceased to wonder why;

Christ will explain each separate anguish

In the fair schoolroom of the sky.

He will tell me what Peter promised,

And I, for wonder at his woe,

I shall forget the drop of anguish

That scalds me now, that scalds me now.

And this one:

Time and Eternity XVII

I never saw a moor;

I never saw the sea,

Yet know I how the heather looks

And what a billow be.

I never spoke with God,

Nor visited in heaven.

Yet certain am I of the spot

As if the checks were given.                            

And there are more, whether contemplations of death or observations of the truth found in nature. Dickinson remains one of my all time favorite poets, and one which I always find to be a rewarding read.