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Emily Dickinson’s 177th birthday arrives next Monday, December 10 (and she looks hardly a day over 150 . . .). Celebratory events are gearing up; we’ve already mentioned the reading and discussion at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, DC, on Monday evening.

Closer to home (at least, to Dickinson’s home), the Emily Dickinson Museum has a few events planned:

  • “my Verse is alive”, an exhibit that “explores the tangled private and public motives of several figures closely associated with Emily Dickinson,” closes on December 8.
  • Emily Dickinson Birthday Lecture, at 4:00 PM today, Thursday, December 6, given by scholar and biographer Polly Longsworth; the title for her lecture is given as “‘Nothing but a Sword’: Austin and Mabel and the Publication of Emily Dickinson’s Poems.”
  • Birthday Open House, 1:00 – 4:00 PM on Saturday, December 8; “the first 177 visitors will receive a rose, courtesy of an anonymous donor.”

The Amherst Bulletin lists some of the many entertainments to expect at the open house, including music, crafts, and a book signing by Barbara Dana and Cindy MacKenzie. If you find yourself in Amherst on Saturday, this is a must-see event!

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‘Tis the busy holiday buying season, all a-glitter and a-dazzle with things that blink and beep and demand our attention. There are still a few quiet corners of commerce, though, and some of them feature items that might delight a Dickinson lover.

At Shakespeare’s Den, find a silk scarf with Emily Dickinson poems printed on it. (Found by way of Cheryl Rainfield; she lists quite a few other items that book lovers would love to find in their stockings.)

littlebuttons offers an Emily Dickinson tote bag at Etsy.

Also at Etsy, papermenagerie offers several Gocco-print cards featuring Dickinson verse and Victorian engravings.

Here’s a lovely little necklace featuring the first two lines of “Hope is the thing with feathers”, at the Signals shop (the Public Broadcasting catalog spinoff).

letterarypress offers poetic letterpress cards.

Inspired by La Pulcina and the Clothespin Repertory Theatre? Start casting your own miniature Amherst opera with a magnetic Emily Dickinson finger puppet.

The Emily Dickinson Museum offers a lovely poster by Penelope Dullaghan.

The official Daily Dickinson 2008 Calendar is available, featuring poems and pictures that have been featured on this site.

And, of course, there are the Daily Dickinson note cards, featuring photos from this site and the words of Emily Dickinson.

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The way I read a letter 's thisThe way I read a letter ‘s this:
‘T is first I lock the door,
And push it with my fingers next,
For transport it be sure.

And then I go the furthest off
To counteract a knock;
Then draw my little letter forth
And softly pick its lock.

Then, glancing narrow at the wall,
And narrow at the floor,
For firm conviction of a mouse
Not exorcised before,

Peruse how infinite I am
To — no one that you know!
And sigh for lack of heaven, — but not
The heaven the creeds bestow.

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MELODIES UNHEARD.Musicians wrestle everywhere:
All day, among the crowded air,
I hear the silver strife;
And — waking long before the dawn –
Such transport breaks upon the town
I think it that “new life!”

It is not bird, it has no nest;
Nor band, in brass and scarlet dressed,
Nor tambourine, nor man;
It is not hymn from pulpit read, –
The morning stars the treble led
On time’s first afternoon!

Some say it is the spheres at play!
Some say that bright majority
Of vanished dames and men!
Some think it service in the place
Where we, with late, celestial face,
Please God, shall ascertain!

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A PRAYER.

A PRAYER.I meant to have but modest needs,
Such as content, and heaven;
Within my income these could lie,
And life and I keep even.

But since the last included both,
It would suffice my prayer
But just for one to stipulate,
And grace would grant the pair.

And so, upon this wise I prayed, –
Great Spirit, give to me
A heaven not so large as yours,
But large enough for me.

A smile suffused Jehovah’s face;
The cherubim withdrew;
Grave saints stole out to look at me,
And showed their dimples, too.

I left the place with all my might, –
My prayer away I threw;
The quiet ages picked it up,
And Judgment twinkled, too,

That one so honest be extant
As take the tale for true
That “Whatsoever you shall ask,
Itself be given you.”

But I, grown shrewder, scan the skies
With a suspicious air, –
As children, swindled for the first,
All swindlers be, infer.

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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 CHARIOT.Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

Or rather He passed us.
The dews drew quivering and chill
For only gossamer, my gown,
My tippet, only tulle.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then ‘t is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.

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THE FIRST LESSON.Not in this world to see his face
Sounds long, until I read the place
Where this is said to be
But just the primer to a life
Unopened, rare, upon the shelf,
Clasped yet to him and me.

And yet, my primer suits me so
I would not choose a book to know
Than that, be sweeter wise;
Might some one else so learned be,
And leave me just my A B C,
Himself could have the skies.

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