Tag: Poems (Page 8 of 9)

I started early, took my dog,
And visited the sea;
The mermaid in the basement
Came out to look at me,

And frigates in the upper floor
Extended hempen hands. 
Presuming me to be a mouse
Aground, upon the sands.

But no man moved me till the tide
Went past my simple shoe,
And past my apron and my belt,
And past my bodice too,

And made as he would eat me up
As wholly as a dew
Upon a dandelion's sleeve - 
And then I started too.

And he - he followed close behind; 
I felt his silver heel
Upon my ankle, - then my shoes
Would overflow with pearl.

Until we met the solid town, 
No man he seemed to know;
And bowing with a mighty look
At me, the sea withdrew.

(from Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson, printed 2016)

Sometimes I have a hard time understanding Emily Dickinson’s poems. For me, many of them seem to be a smattering of words and rhymes without much meaning. I’m sure if I tried to analyze them deeply, I could figure it out, but I tend to be lazy when reading poetry. If the meaning seems unclear, I pass by and find one that is clearer.

However, with this poem, I can see the picture clearly. Can you see it? A lady on a walk by the shore. She looks out, imagining mermaids and ships. Then the waves crash in. They overtake her, covering her shoes, making their way up her skirts all the way to her belt, threatening to overtake her and drag her back with them to the deep. Then, they stop. As though with a bow, the waves recede back to the depths without the lady. This is truly a beautiful picture painted by Emily Dickinson.

I stepped from plank to plank
So slow and cautiously;
The stars about my head I felt,
About my feet the sea.

I knew not but the next
Would be my final inch, - 
This gave me that precarious gait
Some call experience.

(from Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson, printed 2016)

There is no frigate like a book
To take us to lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.

This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!

(from Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson, printed 2016)

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.

(from Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson, printed 2016)

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Abash – to make someone feel embarrassed, disconcerted, or ashamed

Extremity – the extreme degree or nature of something, as extreme difficulty or adversit

He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was dust.
He danced along the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book.  What liberty
a loosened spirit brings!


(from Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson, this volume published 2016)

I know some lonely houses off the road
A robber'd like the look of, - 
Wooden barred
And windows hanging low,
Inviting to 
A portico,

Where two could creep:
One hand the tools, 
The other peep
To make sure all's asleep.
Old-fashioned eyes,
Not easy to surprise!

How orderly the kitchen'd look by night,
With just a clock, - 
But they could gag the tick,
And mice won't bark;
And so the walls don't tell,
None will.

A pair of spectacles agar just stir - 
An almanac's aware.
Was it the mat winked,
Or a nervous star?
The moon slides down the stair
To see who's there.

There's plunder, - where?
Tankard, or spoon,
Earring, or stone,
A watch, some ancient brooch
To match the grandmama, 
Staid sleeping there.

Day rattles, too,
Stealth's slow;
The sun has got as far
As the third sycamore.
Screams chanticleer,
"Who's there?"

And echoes, trains away,
Sneer - "Where?"
While the old couple, just astir,
Think that the sunrise left the door ajar!

(from Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson, this volume published 2016)

I read this odd yet interesting poem the other day. I would hardly think Emily Dickinson was the burglar type, but I do believe she had a vivid imagination. And so she penned this little poem about the houses down the road. Maybe she passed them on her way to and from town. Maybe she lay awake one night listening to the sounds of her own house and imagining robbers coming through her own kitchen. She describes everything that witnesses the robbery: the clock, the mice, the spectacles, the almanac, even the moon. Then, as morning dawns and the chanticleer (the rooster) calls out, “Who’s there?”, the robbers have left only an echo behind them. “Where?”

I really like the last line about imagining that the sunrise left the door ajar. The poor couple! I hope this poem stemmed from Dickinson’s imagination and that she was not writing about a robbery that really took place.

A precious, mouldering pleasure ‘tis

To meet an antique book,

In just the dress his century wore;

A privilege, I think,

His venerable hand to take,

And warming in our own,

A passage back, or two, to make

To times when he was young.

His quaint opinions to inspect,

His knowledge to unfold

On what concerns our mutual mind,

The literature of old; 

What interested scholars most ,

What competitions ran

When Plato was a certainty,

And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl,

And Beatrice wore

The gown that Dante deified,

Facts, centuries before,

He traverses familiar,

As one should come to town

And tell you all your dreams were true:

He lived where dreams were born.

His presence is enchantment,

You beg him not to go;

Old volumes shake their vellum heads

And tantalize, just so.

(from Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson, written circa 1862, this volume published 2016)