SubscribeJuly 28th, 2011
Lucie Brock-Broido, a poem
The last few days, filled with horrifying Christian politicking with respect to Breivik’s deadly religious ideology, with the debt crisis blooming like a mold on the American experiment, and a small host of other small, personal experiences of a similar sort have left me almost breathless with the need for some inner nourishment and a palate cleanser. Poetry, in other words.
Luckily, at the library today, The Master Letters: Poems by Lucie Brock-Broido had come in. It’s a book of poetry based on the three letters written by Emily Dickinson that were found with her poems after her death. If you haven’t read them, you can find copies here. The jacket blurb says of Brock-Broido, her “verse-letters echo and traverse Dickinson’s wilderness of injury and worship; her language is at once blistering and mystical.”
…at once blistering and mystical…
you judge.
Also, None Among Us Has Seen God My Most Courageous Lord— The Teutons have their word for keeping Quiet which our blessing Language does not have. To say nothing of—Agone, to say nothing Of the monk who set himself ablaze, in autumn hair & all, the ravish & the wool of him, the mourning & the sweetest smell of him—Alive—
How did you teach the learning of this Holding & the holding Back—To say nothing of—Ago, obedience, the hiding in
The feral peace of speaking Not, the root & oath of it— Old as a prehistoric furrow horse abed in awe & sediment, Curled on his runic side, in the shape of an O, broken. Wake Is agape, an outskirt of agony, blouse-white & bad—To say Nothing of the nook of sleep—which is a ravage in the chamois night- Sweat of your raff & shames, the fevers of a mirror fire, the rage Or punishment, the Agapé, the kerosene & bone-red rag. That was the best moment of his life. The burning down.
“Faith” is a fine invention
For Gentlemen who see!
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency! (E. Dickinson)
The society that resulted from the European invasion of the Americas seems prone to periods of alternating despair and certainty. The periods of certainty result in territorial and cultural expansion; despair results in upsurges of religiosity and (mental and social) isolationism. The first comes with that awful taste of American-style surety of superiority, that rather hubristic idea that we are the vanguard of human civilization. The second comes when that state crashes – as it inevitably does – against the facts, and falls like a mirror shattered in rage and fear.
My question is how to navigate a society that refuses an even keel?
I was brought to this query by an article on the Daily Beast about religious and anti-religious films written by Marlow Stern.
From superchurch satire ‘Salvation Boulevard’ to the atheist film ‘The Ledge’ and Sundance fave ‘Higher Ground,’ an abnormal number of movies this summer rail against evangelicalism. Marlow Stern speaks with filmmakers and experts from both sides of the debate, including Vera Farmiga of ‘Higher Ground’ and Kirk Cameron of ‘Fireproof.’
Wrestling with it, I found myself thinking about the cycles of religious evangelicism in the US often talked about as the Great Awakenings. (If you’re interested in the topic you might try Jon Butler’s Awash in a Sea of Faith.) It also led me to think about Emily Dickinson and her experience of her community’s salvation.
There is a rather fine short article about E.D. and the complex nature of her faith.
In Dickinson’s teen years, a wave of religious revivals moved through New England. One by one, her friends and family members made the public profession of belief in Christ that was necessary to become a full member of the church. Although she agonized over her relationship to God, Dickinson ultimately did not join the church–not out of defiance but in order to remain true to herself: “I feel that the world holds a predominant place in my affections. I do not feel that I could give up all for Christ, were I called to die” (L13). By the time the First Congregational Church moved to a site near the Homestead on Main Street in 1868, Emily Dickinson had stopped attending services altogether.
Dickinson’s attitude toward spiritual matters was more complex than her poem “Some keep the Sabbath going to church / I keep it staying at home” (Fr236) implies. While her poems are saturated with the language, ritual, and expectation of traditional religious experience, her tone varies tremendously. Some poems affirm the need for faith: “Faith – is the Pierless Bridge / Supporting what We see / Unto the Scene that We do not – ” (Fr978). Irreverence underlies other aspects of her work: “The Bible is an antique Volume – / Written by faded Men / At the suggestion of Holy Spectres -” (Fr1577). At times Dickinson’s poetry expresses outright anger with an absent God:
Of Course – I prayed -
And did God care?
He cared as much as on the Air
A Bird – had stamped her foot -
And cried “Give Me” -
(Fr581)
That’s, I think, the way to handle this current shattered mirror and consequent upswing of despairing faith. The fact that the mirror is broken does not mean what you glimpsed there is no longer true. As best as one can, question, refuse the comfort of simple faith and its feelings of release, refuse the assumptions involved in giving over to the “Gentlemen who see”. Keep formulating alternative responses, but never settle for one; always question, always ask for worldly evidence, for the bird’s perspective on your beliefs.
There’s no way out of the pain of course, no real way to avoid what the mirror reflected. We all have assumptions and we cannot simply leave them all behind, but we can refuse comfort in order to allow questioning. Dickinson remained someone who spoke of gods and the afterlife. That was the basis of her entire world, but her stubborn hold on the world allowed her to remain brilliant, unconventional, a poet.
I mean, who do we remember now? Not those who took hold of the comfort, but those who refused it. There is a reason for that. Not that being remembered is the end-all of desire, but it does point to a lively spot in human awareness, a place where mental sleep has not yet claimed its toll.
This period of upcoming history will be difficult I suspect. No huge wave of desire for comfort, for sleep ever comes without a violent hand for the alarm clocks and a sleeping drug for the awkward pain of living. There will be Emilys of this time, and that voice will be a record of dissent against the coming/ongoing “revival”. I don’t envy her life though, just as I don’t envy Emily’s. So alone, our Amherst Emily must have been with no one who could think as she could, no one who could stand with her in the pain of continual appraisal, constant questioning. So in advance of your life and death, our dearest future unknown Emily, kudos.
January 26th, 2011
master
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.
December 7th, 2010
Pat Lowther, Swann and elliptical minds
I was in the little used booked store that I like in my neighbourhood and was doing my normal thing of picking blindly from the poetry shelves opening and reading a poem and deciding, based on that, whether it goes into the maybe pile. Once I have a neat little stack, just over what I have decided to spend, I go through them and choose based on a more thorough reading.
That’s how it’s supposed to work. In this case I picked up Milk Stone by Pat Lowther, a poet with whom I am completely unfamiliar, only the third or fourth book into the first culling, stopped and headed for the cash register book in hand.
It’s odd that I haven’t heard of her I think, because one of my favourite books is by Carol Shields – Swann, A Mystery – which is very funny in a ouchy and deeply literate kind of way, and is apparently based on Lowther. I can see that now, the connection, but didn’t know enough to see it then.
And now, a long night later, I wonder how much of my memory of the very-long-ago inhalation of Swann impacted my reading of that poem by Lowther in the bookstore. It didn’t consciously, but following a night of restless dreaming of angry, jealous men, I cannot help but think it was there somewhere.
This is “Neither did trees ringing” by Pat Lowther.
Neither did trees ringing with birds grow from his open-palmed hands nor could his head encompass weather (drift of clouds under the wide arch of his cranium so that parched travellers might walk through the lanes of his eyes into a kinder country) nor did his heart grow a thickness of grapes in its own winepress and his mouth flowing with cultured sunlight Only his hair grayed and sleep like a slow wrestler demanded his blessing which he could not give Even with children in his arms his shoulders ached and prickled for birds frosting green things he passed with his gray hair he felt blossoms seeded within him Neither did his heart pumping sour wine ever cease to labour to fill the cups for a wedding
The thing is that when I read it I was stunned. Emily, I thought. Emily Dickinson – and then chastened myself because this is not like Dickinson really. The obsession is different, the style, the conclusions seem very different. Yet the cry of “Emily” remained. After hours of thinking about it, and reading the rest of Milk Stone, I had come to the conclusion that it is a kind of mind, an elliptical mind, wandering through language, linking longing to the small things of the earth that puts Pat and Emily together in my head. That and the placement of identity, of soul, in the relationships with men not managed.
Then, this morning, I went to the computer to learn something of Pat’s later production (Milk Stone was published in 1974) and found that a year later she was murdered by her husband. This is also when I learnt of the connection to Swann and of Pat being called a “northern Emily.” Goodness. I think I am going to have to reread Swann now and think about its central character (a dead poet, Mary Swann) and the book’s (very funny and deeply) satirical stance on the literary engine that uses writers as its fuel.
But before that, I am going to acquire the Collected Works that has come out recently and read the rest of what was written during Lowther’s short career.
Funny thing the mind. But regardless of the origin of my Emily cry, it still holds when I read in Milk Stone. There is an oddity there, and a sense of unfinished business. It’s like Pat (and Emily) pull me along to the edge of another universe, to a world that swirls with very different colours and shapes, into which, via their poetry, I can peek but not enter. But even that marvelous passport isn’t quite the limit of their connection. It’s as if when reading Emily’s Master poems and this one of Pat’s, I am peeking into the same universe but through different doors. I’m not sure what it is about their created world, their sensed worlds, that leads me to believe this, but I will almost certainly be thinking about it for quite some time.
September 29th, 2009
What did “witchcraft” mean to Emily Dickinson?
As is well known, Emily Dickinson read Browne. He defines a view of witchcraft and magic that has a bit of a twist. In effect, it enables the positive use of “extra-curricula” powers and sites magic and its practitioners in the world with us. In fact, Browne makes some of our greatest claims to fame (our inventions, our science) a “power” of this sort, or at least it gives the human versions of it (philosophy, etc.) a transcendental pedigree.
Given that, and given that Emily’s view of witchcraft was likely shaped in some part by Browne, what does that do to how we interpret the poems I have copied below?
Sir Thomas Browne Religio Medici
I conceive there is a traditional magick, not learned immediately from the devil, but at second hand from his scholars, who, having once the secret betrayed, are able and do empirically practise without his advice; they both proceeding upon the principles of nature; where actives, aptly conjoined to disposed passives, will, under any master, produce their effects. Thus, I think, at first, a great part of philosophy was witchcraft; which, being afterward derived to one another, proved but philosophy, and was indeed no more than the honest effects of nature:–what invented by us, is philosophy; learned from him, is magick.
Emily Dickinson
in Johnson, poem 1158 (1870) / In Franklin, poem 1158 (1869)
Best Witchcraft is Geometry
To the magician’s mind -
His ordinary acts are feats
To thinking of mankind -
in Johnson, poem 1583 (1883) / In Franklin, poem 1612 (1883)
Witchcraft was hung, in History,
But History and I
Find all the Witchcraft that we need
Around us, Every Day -
in Johnson, poem 1708 (unknown date) / in Franklin, poem 1712 (unknown date)
Witchcraft has not a pedigree
‘Tis early as our Breath
And mourners meet it going out
The moment of our death -
August 25th, 2009
Tate on Dickinson, part 3
Another theme in Tate’s essay, having outlined the conceptual context of Dickinson’s place as a poet, is his understanding of her cognitive processes as they pertain to achieving an accurate understanding of her poetry as a reader. He says of her, “She lacks almost radically the power to seize upon and understand abstractions for their own sake; she does not separate them from the sensuous illuminations that she is so marvelously adept at; like Donne, she perceives abstraction and thinks sensation.
Stars! What a phrase – “perceives abstraction and thinks sensation”.
August 24th, 2009
Tate on Dickinson, part 2
I’ve been thinking about the Tate essay all day. It’s not so much what he says but the implications of his essay and how these implications fit with other pieces of knowledge that I have acquired elsewhere. What he does is simple really. He places Dickinson in her conceptual context. He outlines the cognitive transition that occurs as a consequence of the end of the Puritan theocracy and the rise of industrial life.
Where the old-fashioned puritans got together on a rigid doctrine, and could thus be individualists in manners, the nineteenth-century New Englander, lacking a genuine religious center, began to be a social conformist. The common idea of the Redemption, for example, was replaced by the conformist idea of respectability among neighbors whose spiritual disorder, not very evident at the surface, was becoming acute. A great idea was breaking up, and society was moving toward external uniformity, which is usually the measure of the spiritual sterility inside.
August 23rd, 2009
Allen Tate on Emily Dickinson
Written in 1932 Allan Tate said “We lack a tradition of criticism. There are no points of critical reference passed on to us from a preceding generation. I am not upholding here the so-called dead hand of tradition, but rather a rational insight into the meaning of the present in terms of some imaginable past implicit in our own lives: we need a body of ideas that can bear upon the course of the spirit and yet remain coherent as a rational instrument. We ignore the present, which is momently translated into the past, and derive our standards from imaginative constructions of the future. The hard contingency of fact invariably breaks these standards down, leaving us in the intellectual chaos which is the sore distress of American criticism. Marxian criticism has become the lastest disguise of this heresy.”
Oh yes. What a pleasure to read. The hard contingency of fact… Imaginative constructions of the future…
Like all those theories of Emily’s imagined lover, no real evidence, just a disbelief that her passion wasn’t aimed at a specific man or woman.
And like Frank Kermode who, wonderful critic that he is, saw this narrative need of ours to live in the apocalyptic story, to define ourselves by something that isn’t amenable to reason or evidence.
There is so much more in that essay. As I process what he had to say, I will post.
August 23rd, 2009
Grouch hangover remedy
It’s nearly noon and the best part of the day is gone. I only got about 4 hours of interrupted sleep last night, woken after 3 hours by a cat fight in my bedroom and then after 3 hours of wakefulness I slept for an hour, to be woken by a bad dream. So these last hours have been hazy, headachy and largely barren.
Bleh. I am grouchy.
I think a nap at the beach is called for. It is kind of a grey, cloudy day so Jericho Beach might not be too crowded. I have my blankets in the car and a book of essays about Emily Dickinson, so I will probably survive the day.
I did read a delightful essay in my very early morning wakefulness. By Conrad Aiken, “Emily Dickinson” was originally published in 1924, 31 years before Thomas Johnson’s edition of her complete poems was released. That means he wrote that essay based on the few, highly (and mostly poorly) edited versions of Dickinson’s work that were then available. And yet Aiken’s essay is wonderfully perceptive of Ms. Dickinson and prescient with regard to what some critics would do when pondering Emily’s personal oddities. In other words, all the things he warned against have been picked up and the resultant theories shaken loose of all evidence, so fascinated have we become about the source of Emily’s “psychic trauma.”
Alan Tate’s essay of 1932, also called “Emily Dickinson,” is in the same volume. I haven’t read it yet; I am looking forward to it, I have seen it cited so many times.
It’s nearly noon and I haven’t had breakfast yet. I am off to a cafe somewhere, then the beach for a nap. Then Tate. The best recipe for grouch-hangover that I can devise.
August 20th, 2009
Emily Dickinson as Christian witch
Emily Dickinson was a fairly uncritical reader in that she liked all manner of sentimental and silly books as well as more salubrious literature. I don’t think this a criticism so much as an explanation of what motivated Emily to read. She read for herself, for what the books (texts that she thought of as conversational and educational friends) could add to her life. She wrote for the same reason I think; she read and wrote as a friend listens to another, to take part in the conversation that marks a social being. (Read Richard B Sewall about this. He has a wonderful little essay called “Emily Dickinson’s Books and Reading.” It was rereading this that prompted this little post.)
She was also a magical thinker. She believed in the literal truth of incarnation, but not just of the Christian version that has Jesus as an incarnation of a simultaneously equal and greater god. She believed in the Platonic-like magic that is an eternal idea born as temporal matter.
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