Emily Dickinson’s master poems have incited riotous rage in academics, some arguing for Bowles, some for Wadsworth, and on the odd occasion, some for Susan. Not that I have any insight into the “truth” about Emily’s chosen master, but I know that if it were me, “master” might have been projected onto any number of actual persons, but the real, self-aware, master would have been my poetic sensibility; my  ”master” would have been built in my own image. I suspect the same of Emily but who can know?

As for me, I don’t project that part of me onto human beings, or onto human being-like gods. I’m more inclined to Emily’s flowers, Wordsworth’s Snowdon, and assorted other non-human phenomena. As an aside, I can’t recall any theorist suggesting flowers as Dickinson’s master, despite their power to bestow grace. It seems to me just as viable a suggestion for a poet as any of the aforesaid human beings. It might make a fun thesis for someone.

But to the reason for this post: I am staying briefly with a friend who is house sitting. The lady of the house is off a-travelling, but the master remains at home. Let me introduce you:

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -
And now We roam in Sovereign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him -
The Mountains straight reply -

And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through -

And when at Night - Our good Day done -
I guard My Master's Head -
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow - to have shared -

To foe of His - I'm deadly foe -
None stir the second time -
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -
Or an emphatic Thumb -

Though I than He - may longer live
He longer must - than I -
For I have but the power to kill,
Without--the power to die--

He fumbles at your spirit
 As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
 He stuns you by degrees,

Prepares your brittle substance
 For the ethereal blow,
By fainter hammers, further heard,
 Then nearer, then so slow

Your breath has time to straighten,
 Your brain to bubble cool, --
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
 That scalps your naked soul.

Sexton! My Master's sleeping here.
Pray lead me to his bed!
I came to build the Bird's nest,
And sow the Early seed --

That when the snow creeps slowly
From off his chamber door --
Daisies point the way there --
And the Troubadour.

Needless to say, all the poetry is Emily’s. A final note: if I was going to worship anyone, it would be master.