NPM: Ee to the Dee

(Image ganked from In the Labyrinth)

For night three of our National Poetry Month Spectacular, we shall spend some quality time with the crowned and sceptered Queen Bee of American Verse, the distinguished balladatrix Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886).

I LIKE A LOOK OF AGONY

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.



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 —



I REASON, EARTH IS SHORT

I reason, Earth is short —
And Anguish — absolute —
And many hurt,
But, what of that?

I reason, we could die —
The best Vitality
Cannot excel Decay,
But, what of that?

I reason, that in Heaven —
Somehow, it will be even —
Some new Equation, given —
But, what of that?



I CANNOT LIVE WITH YOU

I cannot live with You —
It would be Life —
And Life is over there —
Behind the Shelf

The Sexton keeps the Key to —
Putting up
Our Life — His Porcelain —
Like a Cup —

Discarded of the Housewife —
Quaint — or Broke —
A newer Sevres pleases —
Old Ones crack —

I could not die — with You —
For One must wait
To shut the Other's Gaze down —
You — could not —

And I — Could I stand by
And see You — freeze —
Without my Right of Frost —
Death's privilege?

Nor could I rise — with You —
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus' —
That New Grace

Glow plain — and foreign
On my homesick Eye —
Except that You than He
Shone closer by —

They'd judge Us — How —
For You — served Heaven — You know,
Or sought to —
I could not —

Because You saturated Sight —
And I had no more Eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise

And were You lost, I would be —
Though My Name
Rang loudest
On the Heavenly fame —

And were You — saved —
And I — condemned to be
Where You were not —
That self — were Hell to Me —

So We must meet apart —
You there — I — here —
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are — and Prayer —
And that White Sustenance —
Despair —



IN LANDS I NEVER SAW THEY SAY

In lands I never saw — they say
Immortal Alps look down —
Whose Bonnets touch the firmament —
Whose Sandals touch the town —

Meek at whose everlasting feet
A Myriad Daisy play —
Which, Sir, are you and which am I
Upon an August day?



WE OUTGROW LOVE LIKE OTHER THINGS

We outgrow love, like other things
And put it in the Drawer —
Till it an Antique fashion shows —
Like Costumes Grandsires wore.



HER GRACE IS ALL SHE HAS

Her Grace is all she has —
And that, so least displays —
One Art to recognize, must be,
Another Art, to praise.



TELL ALL THE TRUTH BUT TELL IT SLANT

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —

Look at that last poem again. Read it closely. What do you suppose Ms. Dickinson was trying to say?

Hah! That was a trick question. "What is he/she trying to say?" is exactly the wrong question to ask when approaching a poem (or most any other work of literature, for that matter).

What Ms. Dickinson is trying to say is sitting right there in black and gray. Had she been trying to articulate something other than what is represented by the forty-one words written in the order and format you see, she would have written that instead.

We risk falling into a similar trap by asking questions such as "what is the point of this piece?" and "what's this poem about?" as though its whole meaning could be better (or at least more efficiently) expressed summed up as a two-sentence "because of this, then this" blurb.

If a writer's ideas came to him as blurbs, he wouldn't go to the time and trouble of writing stories or poems: he would write simply in blurbs.

Some ideas cannot retain their meaning when truncated to a tweet or Facebook status update. Some ideas resist articulation altogether.

You know this is true. You've had thoughts, made connections, glimpsed patterns in things that you were at a loss to explain to somebody else. You've experienced moments in your life that seemed charged with profound meanings you could sense clearly, but never quite describe.

If poetry still has a valid function, this would be it. It is a means of wielding "language adequate to one's experience," as Jay Parini puts it; using words in such forms that they can better capture those sights, sensations, and intimations we're so often at a loss to explain.

(Remember: if you cannot articulate something, you do not really understand it. Writing is often a process of learning, not just reporting.)

A truly good piece is a gestalt of content and form. The form elevates the content. The content beatifies the form. Without the content, the form is vacuous. Without the form, the content is crude.