The Evergreens: A Blog for English 357

136 Have you got a Brook in your little heart, Where bashful flowers blow, And blushing birds go down to drink, And shadows tremble so -- And nobody knows, so still it flows, That any brook is there, And yet your little draught of life Is daily drunken there -- Why, look out for the little brook in March, When the rivers overflow, And the snows come hurrying from the hills, And the bridges often go -- And later , in August it may be -- When the meadows parching lie, Beware, lest this little brook of life, Some burning noon go dry!

[175]   I have never seen "Volcanoes" -- But, when Travellers tell How those old -- phlegmatic mountains Usually so still -- Bear within -- appalling Ordnance, Fire, and smoke, and gun, Taking Villages for breakfast, And appalling Men -- If the stillness is Volcanic In the human face When upon a pain Titanic Features keep their place -- If at length the smouldering anguish Will not overcome -- And the palpitating Vineyard In the dust, be thrown? If some loving Antiquary, On Resumption Morn, Will not cry with joy "Pompeii"! To the Hills return! (I had to pick 2, sorry!) [314] Nature -- sometimes sears a Sapling -- Sometimes -- scalps a Tree -- Her Green People recollect it When they do not die -- Fainter Leaves -- to Further Seasons -- Dumbly testify -- We -- who have the Souls -- Die oftener -- Not so vitally --

[812] A Light exists in Spring Not present on the Year At any other period-- When March is scarcely here A Color stands abroad On Solitary Fields That Science cannot overtake But Human Nature feels. It waits upon the Lawn, It shows the furthest Tree Upon the furthest Slope you know It almost speaks to you. Then as Horizons step Or Noons report away Without the Formula ofsound It passes and we stay-- A quality of loss Affecting our Content As Trade had suddenly encroached Upon a Sacrament.

You cannot put a Fire out— A Thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a Fan— Upon the slowest Night— You cannot fold a Flood— And put it in a Drawer— Because the Winds would find it out— And tell your Cedar Floor— (530, Johnson)

It might be lonelier Without the Loneliness - I'm so accustomed to my Fate - Perhaps the Other - Peace - Would interrupt the Dark - And crowd the little Room - Too scant - by Cubits - to contain The Sacrament - of Him - I am not used to Hope - It might intrude opon - It's sweet parade - blaspheme the place - Ordained to Suffering - It might be easier To fail - with Land in Sight - Than gain - my Blue Peninsula - To perish - of Delight -

Johnson 579 I had been hungry, all the Years - My Noon had Come - to Dine - I trembling drew the Table near - And touched the Curious Wine - 'T was this on Tables I had seen - When turning, hungry, Home I looked in Windows, for the Wealth (+ Things) I could not hope - for Mine - (+ to Earn) I did not know the ample Bread - 'T was so unlike the Crumb The Birds and I, had often shared In Nature's - Dining Room - The Plenty hurt me - t'was so new - Myself felt ill - and odd - As Berry - of a Mountain Bush - Transplanted - to the Road - Nor was I hungry - so I found That Hunger - was a way Of Persons (+ Creatures) outside Windows The Entering - takes away - ----------- Its worth noting that this poem got "Todd-ized" as "HUNGER." The only major changes were to the second stanza: 'T was this on tables I had seen, When turning, hungry, lone , I looked in windows, for the wealth I could not hope to own .   In short, makin...

After great pain, a formal feeling comes – The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs – The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’ And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’? The Feet, mechanical, go round – A Wooden way Of Ground, or Air, or Ought – Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone – This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

#1058 Bloom – is Result – to meet a Flower And casually glance Would cause one scarcely to suspect The minor Circumstance Assisting in the Bright Affair So intricately done Then offered as a Butterfly To the Meridian – To pack the Bud – oppose the Worm – Obtain its right of Dew – Adjust the Heat – elude the Wind – Escape the prowling Bee Great Nature not to disappoint Awaiting Her that Day – To be a Flower, is profound Responsibility –

Over the fence — Strawberries — grow — Over the fence — I could climb — if I tried, I know — Berries are nice! But — if I stained my Apron — God would certainly scold! Oh, dear, — I guess if He were a Boy — He'd — climb — if He could! I love this one, which a friend who took this class last year actually showed me. The variation in meter between and within the stanzas, the speaker's identification with boyhood, the idea of God as a scold -- so much fun stuff going on. 

1720 Had I known that the first was the last I should have kept it longer. Had I known that the last was the first I should have drunk it stronger. Cup, it was your fault, Lip was not the liar. No, lip, it was yours, Bliss was most to blame. I just think this poem is so funny! It's such a brilliant twist on that biblical phrase, "the first shall be last and the last shall be first," but turning it into being about drinking too quickly/not having enough in your glass. It showcases Dickinson's humor and her skepticism about church. The last bit seems almost unedited (is it lip's fault or isn't it?) and the lack of a rhyme in the final line makes it land with a thud, but the first four lines delighted me so much I had to bring it up.

#333 The Grass so little has to do - A Sphere of simple Green - With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain - And stir all day to pretty Tunes The Breezes fetch along - And hold the Sunshine in its lap And bow to everything - And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls - And make itself so fine A Duchess were too common For such a noticing - And even when it dies - to pass In Odors so divine - Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep - Or Spikenards, perishing - And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell - And dream the Days away, The Grass so little has to do I wish I were a Hay - I've loved this poem for a really long time, and I think the reasons why I love it change every time that I read it! Dickinson's characterization of grass always spoke to me when I was younger, but I appreciate the larger metaphor she crafts here about women's invisible labor.

(F345) (J613) They shut me up in Prose –  As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet –  Because they liked me "still" –  Still! Could themself have peeped –  And seen my Brain – go round – They might as wise have lodged a Bird For Treason – in the Pound –  Himself has but to will And easy as a Star  Look down upon Captivity –  And laugh – No more have I – 

I couldn't help but pick 2 poems - upon initial reading, I don't see any connection between the two, but they both spoke to me in ways I can't fully wrap my head and heart around. Hopefully I'll be able to read and articulate my thoughts a bit better by Tuesday. Hope you all are staying well! Best - Paige J #1695 There is a solitude of space A solitude of sea A solitude of death, but these Society shall be Compared with that profounder site That polar privacy A soul admitted to itself — Finite infinity. J #1724 How dare the robins sing, When men and women hear Who since they went to their account Have settled with the year! — Paid all that life had earned In one consummate bill, And now, what life or death can do Is immaterial. Insulting is the sun To him whose mortal light Beguiled of immortality Bequeaths him to the night. Extinct be every hum In deference to him Whose garden wrestles with the dew, At daybreak overcome!

[Johnson 1046] I've dropped my Brain — My Soul is numb — The Veins that used to run Stop palsied — 'tis Paralysis Done perfecter on stone Vitality is Carved and cool. My nerve in Marble lies — A Breathing Woman Yesterday — Endowed with Paradise. Not dumb — I had a sort that moved — A Sense that smote and stirred — Instincts for Dance — a caper part — An Aptitude for Bird — Who wrought Carrara in me And chiselled all my tune Were it a Witchcraft — were it Death — I've still a chance to strain To Being, somewhere — Motion — Breath — Though Centuries beyond, And every limit a Decade — I'll shiver, satisfied. ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– Not sure this is my favorite, but I just discovered it and want to discuss!

Catherine's pick 214 I taste a liquor never brewed –  From Tankards scooped in Pearl –  Not all the Vats upon the Rhine Yield such an Alcohol! Inebriate of air – am I –  And Debauchee of Dew –  Reeling – thro' endless summer days –  From inns of molten Blue –  When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee Out of the Foxglove's door –  When Butterflies – renounce their "drams" –  I shall but drink the more! Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats –  And Saints – to windows run –  To see the little Tippler Leaning against the – Sun  –  I thought about sharing another poem I deeply love, 640 "I cannot live with you," but I chose the one above because it is ED as naturalist (and theolgian of nature) at her most playful and passionate, and the poem brings me joy. Thank you, English 357, for allowing me to share this time with you...

[Johnson 183] I've heard an Organ talk, sometimes In a Cathedral Aisle, And understood no word it said — Yet held my breath, the while — And risen up — and gone away, A more Bernadine Girl — Yet — know not what was done to me In that old Chapel Aisle. ~~~~~~~~~~ (I know it's simple, but I like it.)

I feel that ED's poem #1540-- As imperceptively as Grief-- so perfectly captures ED's feelings about the ineluctible sense of loss, as Autumn rather surreptitiously usurps summer's dominion. I love this poem--how she describes the insidiousness of this subtle transformation>

That fantastic reading of "I felt a funeral" where the last "then--" sounds like the start to a new sentence that remains unfinished really inspired me this week. The last stanza of that poem gives me an Alice-in-Wonderland-like sense of falling, and as I read "It was not death, for I stood up," it almost sounded like a continuation of that journey. You are falling, "hit[ting] a World at every plunge," then reach the bottom, wonder what the hell just happened, and reason that you aren't dead, because you can still move your limbs ("It was not death, for I stood up"). The second poem becomes a confused person's assessment of reality after the trippy, in-your-head "I felt a funeral." Anyway, I recorded myself reading them like it's one giant poem, and it was really fun! Here's the recording if you want to listen (it had to be a video on Youtube because I couldn't upload an audio file, but it's just a bl...

Poem-A-Day/ April 23 Sorry to miss yesterday! Here (was) Thursday's poem--another important "door" poem: (Johnson 475) Doom is the House without the Door — 'Tis entered from the Sun — And then the Ladder's thrown away, Because Escape — is done — 'Tis varied by the Dream Of what they do outside — Where Squirrels play — and Berries die — And Hemlocks — bow — to God — Think about doors, escapes, "doom" (as opposed to, or in addition to, "despair"); this poem and "The Soul has bandaged moments" are in rich dialogue. One ambiguity: does "without" mean "lacking" (opposite of "with") or "outside" (opposite of "within")? ***

Poem-A-Day/April 22 (Johnson 510) It was not Death, for I stood up, And all the Dead, lie down — It was not Night, for all the Bells Put out their Tongues, for Noon. It was not Frost, for on my Flesh I felt Siroccos — crawl — Nor Fire — for just my Marble feet Could keep a Chancel, cool — And yet, it tasted, like them all, The Figures I have seen Set 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, 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. *** The mind registers this impasse as a death, but the senses keep contradicting it. This extraordinary poem is a kind of inventory of sensation, one shocking image after another. We'll discuss it Friday, so...

Poem-A-Day/April 21 (Johnson 280) I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading — treading — till it seemed That Sense was breaking through — And when they all were seated, A Service, like a Drum — Kept beating — beating — till I thought My Mind was going numb — And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With 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 Race Wrecked, 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 — ** We discussed this poem briefly in class, but it merits a fuller consideration/revisit. It is certainly among Dickinson's most powerful and disturbing poems. It's often taken as a metaphorical account of a mental collapse or even a seizure; its one sentence, knit together by "ands", makes it feel as though it wa...

Poem-A-Day/April 20 (Johnson 512) The Soul has Bandaged moments — When too appalled to stir — She feels some ghastly Fright come up And stop to look at her — Salute her — with long fingers — Caress her freezing hair — Sip, Goblin, from the very lips The Lover — hovered — o'er — Unworthy, that a thought so mean Accost a Theme — so — fair — The soul has moments of Escape — When bursting all the doors — She dances like a Bomb, abroad, And swings upon the Hours, As do the Bee — delirious borne — Long Dungeoned from his Rose — Touch Liberty — then know no more, But Noon, and Paradise — The Soul's retaken moments — When, Felon led along, With shackles on the plumed feet, And staples, in the Song, The Horror welcomes her, again, These, are not brayed of Tongue — ** This chilling poem is in the key of Gothic horror--the word "horror" suggests not just fright, but a genre: think of castles, ghosts, fogbound graveyards, mummies (the first Egyptian mummies were being br...

Poems for the Week of 4/20 Friends, We're now going to read the very greatest of the Dickinson poems we haven't studied carefully, making and discovering our own paths through them. For each of these poems, remember to do a little extra online research and to consult the manuscript archive. This week: "The soul has bandaged moments" (Johnson 360) "I felt a funeral, in my Brain (Johnson 280) "It was not Death, for I stood up" (Johnson 510) "Doom is the house without the Door" (Johnson 475) "They Shut me up in Prose" (Johnson 445)

I had originally just planned on leaving a comment on Lois' post on "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," but I fell into a research rabbit hole and had to write my own research paper  post! The original song/tune was "John Brown's Body," as Lois said, and it was composed by a group of Union soldiers together. In 1890, The New England Magazine published this account of its composition. You can read that in full here:  https://drive.google.com/file/d/1EL1OuHnoMgESzOhPiLGajKZ0OBrS4uJU/view?usp=sharing . It's pretty funny! However, it seems that the tune of "John Brown's Body" had an even earlier version: "Say Brothers, Will You Meet Us, which you can learn about here:  http://www.stephengriffith.com/folksongindex/say-brothers-will-you-meet-us/ ."  Here's the "tl;dr" version of the Civil War lyrics' origin from NPR:  A quick bit of history: It's the middle of the Civil War. Union soldiers are sitting aroun...

Re: "Bowl" (from Pamela) Many thanks to Pamela for following up on our discussion of the word "bowl"--here's a wikipedia entry of note! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_the_Crater

Just thought I would share with everyone a little note I had sent to Dan after our last class. At the end of class, I thought of Julia Ward Howe's "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord"---Such a beautiful and noble lyrical text, which unfortunately is often eclipsed by a mindless singing of the familiar tune to which these glorious words were set, and to a much later nonsensical rewrite by adolescents boys, I would imagine, ---shows my bias, even though I have two wonderful male offspring myself!-- "glory glory hallelujah, teacher hit me with a ruler...etc". It might be interesting to compare Howe's Civil War poem with Emily's poem...and to see that they were written in the same year!  Howe, as a deeply committed abolitionist, seems to have seen the war as a profound moral obligation, with God on the side of the North, and through her lyrics, she paints with a broad, sweeping brush on a monumental canvas.  I would imagine that Emil...

Poem-A-Day/April 16 https://poets.org/poem/fish-1 *** Read this poem aloud. Read it slowly, savoring every phrase. Note how it deepens and we move forward, its own tentative journey into darkness and fear and even (amazingly) "injury" and "abuse--revealing, along the way, magnificent life forms. You may (Moore will permit it, though probably wouldn't agree) see this as a poem about the self as it accumulates hurts, physical and emotional scars (whether from accident, or from intentional harm, by oneself of by others); and about how landscapes and bodies reveal past traumas.

Poem-A-Day/April 16 (Johnson 409) They dropped like Flakes — They dropped like Stars — Like Petals from a Rose — When suddenly across the June A wind with fingers — goes — They perished in the Seamless Grass — No eye could find the place — But God can summon every face Of his Repealless — List. ** A good entry on this poem on the White Heat blog: https://journeys.dartmouth.edu/whiteheat/jan1-7f545/

Poem-A-Day/April 15 (Johnson 759) He fought like those Who've nought to lose — Bestowed Himself to Balls As One who for a further Life Had not a further Use — Invited Death — with bold attempt — But Death was Coy of Him As Other Men, were Coy of Death — To Him — to live — was Doom — His Comrades, shifted like the Flakes When Gusts reverse the Snow — But He — was left alive Because Of Greediness to die — ** Again we find ED wringing out of a "public" theme her own view, her own terms. Compare this personification of death with the very famous poem, "Because I could not stop for death" (Johnson 712)--there, Death is a bold and suave courtier, arriving to pick up his date; here, the gendered term "coy" might imply that death is a young woman, though "other men" are here, somewhat surprisingly, said to be "coy" as well.  The final stanza has so many echoes of other ED poems. "For I have but the power to live/Without the p...

COMMENTS from Alyssa! (Apologies to Alyssa, who has had trouble commenting directly on the Blog--Alyssa, thank you!) [This is a reply to Emily Fu’s comment on Week 1 Poem 1] 
 I love that you mention the way E.D. uses “anchored” to describe the petal on her dress. I think the expected descriptor would be “stuck,” so this is a really incredible moment of imagery. In those lines: I put new Blossoms in the Glass — And throw the old — away — I push a petal from my Gown That anchored there — I weigh E.D. moves from the very quick-paced--flowers that die regularly and get replaced almost mechanically--to the slowing down of time with the words “anchored” and “weigh,” words which are slow to read as well as processes that describe permanence. — [This is a general comment on Week 1 Poem 1] I find it particularly interesting that E.D. enumerates multiple genders in this poem, in the lines “We cannot put Ourself away/ As a completed Man/ Or Woman —.” Normally, ...