days

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GOING.On such a night, or such a night,
Would anybody care
If such a little figure
Slipped quiet from its chair,

So quiet, oh, how quiet!
That nobody might know
But that the little figure
Rocked softer, to and fro?

On such a dawn, or such a dawn,
Would anybody sigh
That such a little figure
Too sound asleep did lie

For chanticleer to wake it, –
Or stirring house below,
Or giddy bird in orchard,
Or early task to do?

There was a little figure plump
For every little knoll,
Busy needles, and spools of thread,
And trudging feet from school.

Playmates, and holidays, and nuts,
And visions vast and small.
Strange that the feet so precious charged
Should reach so small a goal!

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NOVEMBER.

NOVEMBER.Besides the autumn poets sing,
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the haze.

A few incisive mornings,
A few ascetic eyes, –
Gone Mr. Bryant’s golden-rod,
And Mr. Thomson’s sheaves.

Still is the bustle in the brook,
Sealed are the spicy valves;
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The eyes of many elves.

Perhaps a squirrel may remain,
My sentiments to share.
Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,
Thy windy will to bear!

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I am glad there are Books. They are better than Heaven, for that is unavoidable, while one may miss these.

– Emily Dickinson to Frank Sanborn, 1873

The Emily Dickinson Museum has started on an ambitious and interesting project: to restore the Dickinson homes’ libraries to their condition when Emily was in residence.

Most of the books that were in the Dickinson homes–both the Homestead, where Emily lived, and the Evergreens, her brother Austin’s home–are at Harvard or Brown. Though a boon to scholars–knowing what a poet was reading can be very helpful in understanding what she was writing, especially if there are scribbles in the margins–this makes the shelves at the Dickinson homes much barer than they should be.

The Dickinson Museum is looking for in-kind and cash donations to fill the shelves; each book’s donor will be named on a book plate in the volume placed on the shelf. They have a list, but it hasn’t been updated on the web site since January 9, 2008; if you’re interested in contributing in-kind (and by “in-kind”, they mean the exact edition: not just any Jane Eyre, but the 1864 Harper’s & Bros. with the Currer Bell pseudonym), check with the folks on the Replenishing the Shelves project before you send anything.

Cash, no doubt, is a much preferred and flexible contribution.

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!

A BOOK

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Emily Dickinson has a NYT name-check in the arts section today. Not a work of art inspired by Dickinson, per se, though her words are doubtless in the “vast collective [memory] that is stocked and ordered every day (and these days, every minute)” at the New York Times: “Moveable Type” is an installation in the lobby of the New York Times Building. The work consists of “two high walls [with] 560 small screens, 280 a wall, suspended in a grid pattern that looks at first glance like some kind of minimalist sculpture.” Across these screens flash words, phrases, and sentences culled from the NYT’s vast archives of 156 years worth of stories.

During the day, the machine delivers mostly snippets of news, including feeds from The NYT’s impressive offerings of web-only content. But at night, “the artwork, like the paper, will be mostly asleep but ‘dreaming’ — rummaging, ‘Finnegans Wake’-style, through articles and captions and headlines going back generations.”

It’s during those dreaming hours that snippets that have to do with Ms. Dickinson might flit past on the vacuum fluorescent displays. In recent years, the NYT has covered conservative Christians’ annoyance that she is not as edifying as they’d like; the passing of Richard Sewall, an influential Dickinson biographer; the scandalous affair of her brother Austin; and a 1986 tribute to which Joyce Carol Oats, Adrienne Rich, and Denise Levertov were invited. And that’s just what’s in the on-line database. No doubt “Moveable Type” has richer resources from which to draw to churn up snippets of Dickinson’s verse.

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The daisy follows soft the sun,The daisy follows soft the sun,
And when his golden walk is done,
Sits shyly at his feet.
He, waking, finds the flower near.
“Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?”
“Because, sir, love is sweet!”

We are the flower, Thou the sun!
Forgive us, if as days decline,
We nearer steal to Thee, –
Enamoured of the parting west,
The peace, the flight, the amethyst,
Night’s possibility!

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INDIAN SUMMER.

INDIAN SUMMER.These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, –
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!

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Higgledy piggledy

By way of Louise Doughty’s article on the ways in which writers, under deadline and hounded by editors, find ways to relax, here’s a nice bit of doggerel by Wendy Cope:

Higgledy-piggledy
Emily Dickinson
Liked to use dashes
Instead of full stops.

Nowadays, faced with such
Idiosyncrasy,
Critics and editors
Send for the cops.

I’m sorry to say that I’d never heard of Wendy Cope before today, but happy to say that I’ve heard about her now. She’s not much like Dickinson–the British Council says that “[t]he poets she most resembles are John Betjeman and Philip Larkin”, and that certainly seems the case with the sampling I’ve read: sardonic, a little caustic, but with a playful and even kind streak. Then again, maybe she is a bit like Dickinson, but with a very different style.

There’s a nice sample of her poems here; and if you like those (and who doesn’t love a limerick version of “The Waste Land”?), hurry out and grab a copy of Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis, If I Don’t Know, or Serious Concerns.

A lot more can and will be said about Dickinson’s idiosyncratic use of punctuation. But on a Friday afternoon, a nice little rhyme suffices.

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THE MOUNTAIN.

THE MOUNTAIN.The mountain sat upon the plain
In his eternal chair,
His observation omnifold,
His inquest everywhere.

The seasons prayed around his knees,
Like children round a sire:
Grandfather of the days is he,
Of dawn the ancestor.

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