A little Dickinson

Selected poems from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson
US, various – 19th century
Thomas H. Johnson, editor, 1976 ed.

I really don’t read much lyric poetry, but for April poetry month, the organizers of my in-person classic book club made sure that I would.

The poems were all selections from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, as edited and arranged by Thomas H. Johnson. It is a massive book—Dickinson wrote well over 1,700 poems—from which we were only assigned thirty-five, as well as some “compare tos” and a handful of “bonus” poems. Or however many you felt like 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 opress of Toll—
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human soul

(#1263 in Johnson)

Some of Dickinson’s most famous poems were included—“Hope is the thing with feathers,” “Success is counted sweetest”—as well as poems that, to me at least, were less familiar. The selected poems had a variety of themes and voices—one, even, “My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun – ” from the point-of-view of a shotgun. But with such a proliferation of poems to choose from, they could only ever serve as a “taster” of Dickinson.

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.

(#986 in Johnson)

Dickinson’s poems do not quite follow all the “rules” of poetry that were accepted in the 19th century. Her punctuation was unusual, her rhymes often “slant,” that is, not quite a perfect match. These little rebellions are perhaps why I appreciate her poems more than those of some of her contemporaries. So often lyric poetry can seem “sing-songy” to me, but even though she often has a consistent rhythm pattern, there’s something less nursery-rhyme like to me and more nebulous, more mature. That so often her poems take multiple readings and thought to understand probably contributes to this as well!

In our book club discussion, we also touched on how many meanings a single poem can contain. The peculiarities of punctuation and capitalization, the metaphors, the inversion of syntax (Yoda may have been referenced!) all contribute to an openness of interpretation.

Although I still don’t see myself as a poetry person, reading some on occasion is a nice change of pace from my usual fare. And sometimes, a poem says something just right, in an economy of words that narrative forms do not have.

As imperceptibly as Grief
The Summer lapsed away —
Too imperceptible, at last
To seem like Perfidy —

A Quietness distilled
As Twilight long begun
Or Nature spending with herself
Sequestered Afternoon —

The Dusk drew earlier in —
The Morning foreign shone —
A courteous, yet harrowing Grace
As Guest that would be gone —

And thus without a Wing
Or service of a Keel
Our Summer made her light escape
Into the Beautiful

(#1540 in Johnson)