EmilyDICKINSON

Selected Poems

r e a d | m o r e | p o e t r y c h a ry b d i s p r e s s

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Selected Poems

r e a d | m o r e | p o e t r y

c h a r y b d i s p r e s sn e w y o r k

Published byCharybdis Press

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Printed in the United States of America

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First Printing

t h e r e a d | m o r e | p o e t r y s e r i e s : d i c k i n s o n

is set in Rockwell and Whitman, designed by Ken Lew.

Book edited and designed by Jason Blasso

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r e a d | m o r e | p o e t r y _________________________________________________________________________

The editors of the Read More Poetry Series understand that because poetry is no longer taught in schools or critically reviewed as a viable art form, new readers, unfamiliar with poetry’s demands, will find the world of poetry difficult to access. The Read More Poetry Series was created to bring poetry to the public in a portable and affordable form to make poetry more accessible and to open the door to the rich resources of our poetic heritage.

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“That it will nevercome again / Is what makes life so sweet.”

–Dickinson

Contents

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –Before I got my eye put out –I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,’Tis so appalling – it exhilarates –It was not Death, for I stood up,I know that He exists.One need not be a Chamber – to be Haunted –The Months have ends – the Years – a knot –I died for Beauty – but was scarceBecause I could not stop for Death –From Blank to Blank –A Pit – but Heaven over it –This is my letter to the WorldI reckon – When I count at all –I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –The Brain – is wider than the Sky –No Rack can torture me –My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun –So give me back to Death –My life closed twice before it’s close;

3

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –That perches in the soul –And sings the tune without the words –And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –And sore must be the storm –That could abash the little Bird –That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –And on the strangest Sea –Yet – never – in Extremity,It asked a crumb – of me.

* * *

Before I got my eye put out –I liked as well to see As other creatures, that have eyes –And know no other way –

But where is told to me, Today,That I might have the Sky

4

For mine, I tell you that my HeartWould split, for size of me –

The Meadows – mine –The Mountains – mine –All Forests – Stintless stars –As much of noon, as I could take –Between my finite eyes –

The Motions of the Dipping Birds –The Morning’s Amber Road – For mine – to look at when I liked,The news would strike me dead –

So safer – guess – with just my soulOpen the window paneWhere other creatures put their eyes –Incautious – of the Sun –

* * * I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,And Mourners to and froKept treading – treading – till it seemed

5

That Sense was breaking through –

And when they all were seated,A Service, like a Drum –Kept beating – beating – till I thoughtMy mind was going numb –

And then I heard them lift a BoxAnd creak across my SoulWith those same Boots of Lead, again,Then Space – began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,And Being, but an Ear,And I, and Silence, some strange RaceWrecked, solitary, here –

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,And I dropped down, and down –And hit a World, at every plunge,And Finished knowing – then –

* * *

6

’Tis so appalling – it exhilarates –So over Horror, it half captivates –The Soul stares after it, secure –To know the worst, leaves no dread more –

To scan a Ghost, is faint –But grappling, conquers it – How easy, Torment, now –Suspense kept sawing so –

The Truth, is Bald – and Cold –But that will hold –If any are not sure –We show them – prayer –But we, who know,Stop hoping, now –

Looking at Death, is Dying –Just let go the Breath –And not the pillow at your cheekSo slumbereth –Others, can wrestle –Your’s, is done – And so of Wo, bleak dreaded – come,

7

It sets the Fright at liberty –And Terror’s free – Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!

* * *

It was not Death, for I stood up,And all the dead, lie down –It was not Night, for all the BellsPut out their tongues, for Noon.

It was not Frost, for on my FleshI felt Siroccos – crawl –Nor Fire – for just my marble feetCould keep a Chancel, cool –

And yet, it tasted, like them all,The figures I have seenSet orderly, for Burial,Reminded me, of mine –

As if my life were shaven,And fitted to a frame,And could not breathe without a key,

8

And ’twas like Midnight, some –

When everything that ticked – has stopped –And space stares – all around –Or Grisly frosts – first Autumn morns,Repeal the Beating Ground –

But, most, like Chaos – Stopless – cool –Without a Chance, or spar –Or even a Report of Land –To justify – Despair.

* * *

I know that He exists.Somewhere – in silence –He has hid his rare lifeFrom our gross eyes.

’Tis an instant’s play –’Tis a fond Ambush –Just to make BlissEarn her own surprise!

9

But – should the playProve piercing earnest –Should the glee – glaze –In Death’s – stiff – stare –

Would not the funLook too expensive!Would not the jest – Have crawled too far!

* * *

One need not be a Chamber – to be Haunted –One need not be a House – The Brain has Corridors – surpassingMaterial Place –

Far safer, of a midnight meetingExternal GhostThan it’s interior confronting –That cooler Host –

Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,The Stones a’chase –

10

Than unarmed, one’s a’self encounter–In lonesome Place –

Ourself behind ourself, concealed –Should startle most –Assassin hid in our ApartmentBe Horror’s least –

The Body – borrows a Revolver –He bolts the Door –O’erlooking a superior spectre –Or More –

* * *

The Months have ends – the Years – a knot –No Power can untieTo stretch a little furtherA Skein of Misery –

The Earth lays back these tired livesIn her mysterious Drawers –Too tenderly, than any doubtAn ultimate Repose –

11

The manner of the Children –Who weary of the Day –Themself – the noisy PlaythingThey cannot put away –

* * *

I died for Beauty – but was scarceAdjusted in the TombWhen One who died for Truth, was lainIn an adjoining Room –

He questioned softly “Why I failed”?“For Beauty”, I replied –“And I – for Truth – Themself are One –We Brethren, are”, He said –And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night –We talked between the Rooms –Until the Moss had reached our lips –And covered up – Our names –

* * *

Because I could not stop for Death –

12

He kindly stopped for me –The Carriage held but just Ourselves –And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no hasteAnd I had put awayMy labor and my leisure too,For his Civility –

We passed the School, where Children stroveAt Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us –The Dews drew quivering and Chill –For only Gossamer, my Gown –My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemedA Swelling of the Ground –The Roof was scarcely visible –The Cornice – in the Ground –

13

Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yetFeels shorter than the DayI first surmised the Horses’ HeadsWere toward Eternity –

* * *

From Blank to Blank –A Threadless WayI pushed Mechanic feet –To stop – or perish – or advance –Alike indifferent –

If end I gainedIt ends beyondIndefinite disclosed –I shut my eyes –and groped as well’Twas lighter – to be Blind –

* * *

A Pit – but Heaven over it –And Heaven beside, and Heaven abroad;And yet a Pit –

14

With Heaven over it.

To stir would be to slip –To look would be to drop –To dream – to sap the PropThat holds my chances up.Ah! Pit! With Heaven over it!

The depth is all my thought –I dare not ask my feet –’Twould start us where we sitSo straight you’d scarce suspectIt was a Pit – with fathoms under itIt’s Circuit just the sameWhose Doom to whom’Twould start them –We – could tremble –But since we got a Bomb –And held it in our Bosom –Nay – Hold it – it is calm –

* * *

This is my letter to the World

15

That never wrote to Me –The simple News that Nature told –With tender Majesty

Her Message is committedTo Hands I cannot see –For love of Her – Sweet – countrymen –Judge tenderly – of Me

* * *

I reckon – When I count at all –First – Poets – Then the Sun –Then Summer – Then the Heaven of God –And then – the List is done –

But, looking back – the First so seemsTo comprehend the Whole –The Others look a needless Show –So I write – Poets – All –

Their Summer – lasts a solid Year –They can afford a SunThe East – would deem extravagant –

16

And if the Further Heaven –

Be Beautiful as they prepareFor Those who worship Them –It is too difficult a Grace –To justify the Dream –

* * *

I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –The Stillness in the RoomWas like the Stillness in the Air –Between the Heaves of Storm –

The Eyes around – had wrung them dry –And Breaths were gathering firmFor that last Onset – when the KingBe witnessed – in the Room –

I willed my Keepsakes – Signed awayWhat portion of me beAssignable – and then it wasThere interposed a Fly –

17

With Blue – uncertain – stumbling Buzz –Between the light – and me –And then the Windows failed – and thenI could not see to see –

* * *

The Brain – is wider than the Sky –For – put them side by side –The one the other will containWith ease – and You – beside -

The Brain is deeper than the sea –For – hold them – Blue to Blue –The one the other will absorb –As Sponges – Buckets – do –

The Brain is just the weight of God –For – Heft them – Pound for Pound –And they will differ – if they do –As Syllable from Sound –

* * *

18

No Rack can torture me –My Soul – at Liberty –Behind this mortal Bone –There knits a bolder One –

You cannot prick with Saw –Nor pierce with Cimitar –Two Bodies – therefore be –Bind One – The Other fly –

The Eagle of his NestNo easier divest –And gain the SkyThan mayest Thou –

Except Thyself may beThine Enemy –Captivity is Consciousness –So’s Liberty –

* * *

My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun –In Corners – till a Day

19

The Owner passed – identified –And carried Me away –

And now We roam in Sovreign Woods –And now We hunt the Doe –And every time I speak for HimThe Mountains straight reply –

And do I smile, such cordial light Opon the Valley glow –It is a Vesuvian faceHad let it’s pleasure through –

And when at Night – Our good Day done –I guard My Master’s Head –’Tis better than the Eider Duck’sDeep 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

20

He longer must – than I –For I have but the power to kill,Without – the power to die –

* * *

So give me back to Death –The Death I never fearedExcept that it deprived of thee –And now, by Life deprived,In my own Grave I breatheAnd estimate it’s size –It’s size all that Hell can guess –And all that Heaven was – * * *

My life closed twice before it’s close;It yet remains to seeIf Immortality unveilA third event to me,So huge, so hopeless to conceiveAs these that twice befell.Parting is all we know of heaven,And all we need of hell.

Emily Dickinson(December 10, 1830 - May 15, 1886)

Emily Dickinson barely published any poems in her lifetime. The extent of her work was unknown by family and friends until after her death when her sister, Lavinia, discovered nearly 1,800 poems in a locked box in her room. The poems were unlike anything seen before: short lines connected by cryptic dashes and broken meter. Hers was a strangely compact and vital form that crushed coal to diamond in the gravity of its unassuming stanzas. Heavily edited upon publication, Dickinson’s unconventional style was altered to fit the poetic norms of the time where much of what was unique in her work was redacted. Luckily today, we are able to see her poems as they were written, though some speculation remains around her punctuation and its intended meaning. To read and hear her singular style and rhythms is to engage a true original of American letters. If ever there was a mother of American poetry, the Belle of Amherst, was it.

Presented here is a selection of some of Dickinson’s more popular poems. They are terse and intense investigations and ruminations on life, death and solitude.

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