Leconte de Lisle: "The Jaguar's Dream"

Here's one of those poems that grabbed me, and I had to keep coming back to read it.


The Jaguar's Dream

Lianas in bright bloom hang from mahogany shade,
Motionless where the air is languorous
And buzzing with summer flies.  Brushing the moss,
They curl into cradles clutched by the emerald quetzal, swayed
Wildly by monkeys, spun with the yellow spider's silver floss.
Here the bull-killer, slayer of stallions, tired,
Moves among dead tree-stumps moist and soft as sponge,
Implicit violence in his measured tread.
Pelt shimmering with each muscle's plunge,
While from his bay-wide muzzle, drooping with thirst,
A clipped, harsh, rattled breathing shocks
Huge lizards from their sun-trance to a burst
Of chrome-green sparkling over shadowed rocks;
And there where the dark wood blots the sun,
He sprawls across a lichened stone,
Licks satin paws to a lustrous sheen,
Flutters the sleep-heavy lids of gold eyes down
And, as the ghost of his waking force
Twitches his tail and ripples along each side,
He dreams that by some orchard's water course
He leaps and digs his dripping  claws
Into a bellowing bull's flesh-swollen hide.

Charles-Marie Rene' Lecontede Lisle  (1818-1894)
from World Poetry:  An Anthology of Verse
from Antiquity to Our Time  
trans. James Lasdon



I don't know what this poem means or if it is symbolic or metaphorical or allegorical.  It's inner, hidden, deeper meaning escapes me.  It must be the imagery here that attracts me.  A picture is supposed to be worth a thousand words, but I doubt if a thousand pictures could accomplish, for me anyway, what these few words some how manage to do.


 

Thomas Hardy: "A Nightmare, And The Next Thing

A Nightmare, And The Next Thing

On this decline of  Christmas Day
The empty street is fogg4ed and blurred:
The house-fronts all seem backwise turned
As if the outer world were spurned:
Voices and songs within are heard,
Whence red rays gleam when fires are stirred,
Upon this nightmare Christmas Day.

The lamps, just lit, begin to outloom
Like dandelion-globes in the gloom;
The stonework, shop-signs, doors, look bald:
Curious crude details seem installed,
And show themselves in their degrees
As they were personalities
Never discerned when the street was bustling
With vehicles, and farmers hustling.
Three clammy casuals wend their way
To the Union House.  I hear one say:
"Jimmy, this is a treat!  Hay-hay!"

Six laughing mouths, six rows of teeth,
Six  radiant pairs of eyes, beneath
Six yellow hats, looking out at the back
Of a waggonette on its slowed-down track
Up the steep street to some gay dance,
Suddenly interrupt my glance.

They do not see a gray nightmare
Astride the day, or anywhere.

-- Thomas Hardy --
from The Works of Thomas Hardy


Strange juxtaposition here--Christmas and a nightmare.  But, the nightmare seems to be that of someone who is alone.  With no one about, the familiar houses and buildings now suddenly seem strange.  There is no nightmare inside the houses where voices and songs are heard.  The three "casuals," on their way to a free meal are joyful as are the six in the waggonette heading for a dance.  The nightmare seems to be the exclusive property of one who is alone.

Carl Sandburg: Happiness

                               Happiness

I asked professors who teach the meaning of life to tell me
     what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of
     thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though
     I was trying to fool with them.
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the
     Deplaines river
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their
     women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion.

--  Carl Sandburg --
from Harvest Poems


Much too simple an answer, isn't it?  At least, I guess, for the 21st century--family, friends, a keg, and making their own music.

Carl Sandburg: Phizzog

Carl Sandburg in one of his lighter moments--or perhaps rueful might be more appropriate?


Phizzog

This face you got,
This here phizzog you carry around,
You never picked it out for yourself,
       at all, at all--did you?
This here phizzog--somebody handed it
       to you--am I right?
Somebody said, "Here's yours, now go see
       what you can do with it."
Somebody slipped it to you and it was like
       a package marked:
"No goods exchanged after being taken away"--
This face you got.

-- Carl Sandburg --

Some are winners, some losers.  I guess the best I can say about my prize is that I'm glad I'm on the inside looking out.

Langston Hughes: Looking for Joy

Joy

I went to look for Joy,
Slim, dancing Joy,
Gay, laughing Joy,
Bright-eyed Joy--
And I found her
Driving the butcher's cart
In the arms of the butcher boy!
Such company, such company,
As keeps this young nymph, Joy!
--Langston Hughes--

I think the charm is its ambiguity.  Is Joy a young girl or is it the emotion itself?  Or is it both?  Whichever it is, Joy can be found anywhere, even in the arms of the butcher boy.    I can picture the cart moving through the streets guided by the butcher boy with his love in his arms, and their hands intertwined while holding the reins.  I can also picture that same cart driven by a young boy, grinning cheerfully, smiling at all who meet his eye, just glad to be alive.

Wallace Stevens: Anecdote of the Jar

This is one of Wallace Stevens' most familiar and most anthologized poems.  It's also an example of how memory can play tricks on one.  For years I've been remembering  a somewhat different poem, and all because of one misremembered verb.


Anecdote of the Jar

I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.


 My problem was the verb in the first line:  I remembered the first line as "I found a jar in Tennessee,"  not "I placed a jar in Tennessee."  For years I had thought that he had stumbled across that jar on a hill in the midst of  wilderness, and, therefore, it was a magical discovery.  When I came across it again a short time ago, I was surprised to find that the poet had placed that jar on the hill.  Now, I must see this as more of an experiment than a bit of magic. The question now changes from how that jar got there to why he put it there. Once I got the verb right, I was able to answer the question of how it got there, but now I'm uncertain as to why he put it there.  As frequently happens, answering one question brings up a second.

I wonder if my substitution of  "placed"  by  "found" can be, perhaps partly, attributed to the poem itself.  The first two stanzas have a strong internal rhyme: the "ound" sound.  "Round" and "surround" appear in the first stanza.  In the second stanza we read "around,"  "round," and "ground."  It may have been this that influenced me to substitute "found" for "placed."

What is it about that jar that causes it to become the dominating element in the scene?  Situated on a hill certainly would draw one's attention to it, for would be the central component, and all around would now be seen in some way as being in subordinate to it. While the plants and trees and bushes have not moved, they would now seem to be ordered by the jar, "no longer wild."

 The power of being on the top of the hill is also a  common theme in art and literature.   I am reminded of castles and lonely mansions that command the surrounding territory because of their position.  Of course, it's also a powerful symbol for Christians--the cross on a hill outside of Jerusalem which features in many paintings and murals.

The jar is unlike anything else in Tennessee (a bit of poetic license here, as there surely are many jars in Tennessee) for it is a manufactured thing and therefore sterile, lifeless.  No bird or bush could ever come from the jar. It might be this quality that helps to give  it "dominion everywhere."   The jar is round, with no beginning and no stopping place,  and if I were to come across it and walk around it, I would come back to where I began, which is also the movement in the poem.  The poem begins with a jar in Tennessee and ends with that same jar in Tennessee.

Like most of Stevens' poetry, I get the feeling that I"m getting only a part of it and much is escaping me.  Or, perhaps I should just read the poem and take it as it is.

  

Carl Sandburg: a definition (nine actually) of poetry

Poets and critics and scholars have long debated the nature of poetry.  However, I don't think anyone has come up with one definition that satisfies everybody.   Carl Sandburg has come up with nine himself.


Nine Tentative (First Model) Definitions of Poetry

1.  Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged
               to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes,
              syllables, wave lengths.

2.  Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling
                life and then entombing it.

3.  Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into 
               horizons too swift for explanations. 

4.  Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.

5.  Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of
                the unknown and the unknowable.

6.  Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.

7.  Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made
               and why they go away. 

8.  Poetry is the achievement of the synthesis of hyacinths and
               biscuits. 

9.  Poetry is the capture of a picture, a song, or a flair, in a
               deliberate prism of words.


Is this a poem?

I think Sandburg is really saying here that poetry can't be defined.  My favorite definition, though, comes from Robert Frost who once said, when asked what poetry was, that poetry is what gets lost in the translation.   But, if I had to choose one of Sandburg's,  I guess I'd go with No. 4.




   The sea darkening  .  .  .
Oh voices of the wild ducks
   Crying, whirling, white
                    -- Basho --

from A Little Treasury of Haiku
trans.  Peter Beilenson

Thomas Hardy: June 2, 1840--Jan. 11, 1928

I frequently read comments that Thomas Hardy's works seem morbid or pessimistic or gloomy.  I guess Hardy's works are like the Bible in that one can always find what one is looking for.  I don't consider the following poem to be either morbid, pessimistic, or gloomy.

How does it seem to you?


The Ruined Maid

"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who  could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"--
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.

--"You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and  bright feathers three!"--
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.

--"At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,'
And 'thik oon,' and 'theas oon,' and 't'other; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!"--
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.

--"Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I'm bewitched  by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"--
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.

--"You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"--
"True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.

--"I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!"--
"My dear--a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that.  You ain't ruined," said she. 



A touch of gloating here?

Paul Lawrence Dunbar, "The Mystery"

This poem by Paul Lawrence Dunbar expresses one of the basic tenets of Taoism: we know not where we come from and we know not where we go. In the West, much blood has been spilled by various religious groups because of differences in doctrine about our ultimate destination. Perhaps if they had been less dogmatic about their beliefs, fewer people would have died in vain.


The Mystery

I was not; now I am -- a few days hence
I shall not be; I fain would look before
And after, but can neither do; some Power
Or lack of power says "no" to all I would.
I stand upon a wide and sunless plain,
Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright.
Whene'er, overcoming fear, I date to move,
I grope without direction and by chance.
Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand
That draws them ever upward thro' that gloom.
But I --I hear no voice and touch no hand,
Tho' oft thro' silence infinite I list,
And strain my hearing to supernal sounds;
Tho' oft thro' fearful darkness do I reach,
And stretch my hand to find that other hand.
I question of th' eternal bending skies
That seem to neighbor with the novice earth;
But they roll on, and daily shut their eyes
On me, as I one day shall do on them,
And tell me not the secret that I ask.


Another reason why this poem caught my eye is that recently I had just posted some comments about Quatrain LII from FitzGerald's The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. I thought it might be interesting to quote that quatrain. People from different cultures and times still seem to think alike.


First Edition: Quatrain LII

And that inverted bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to It for help--for It
Rolls impotently on as Thou and I.



And while I was reading that Quatrain, yet another came to mind:



First Edition: Quatrain XXXIII

Then to the rolling Heav'n I cried,
Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide
Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?
And--"A blind Understanding!" Heav'n replied.


It seems as though there are two ways of dealing with this mystery. One is to grasp desperately at one "truth" which others have claimed to know, and to struggle constantly with those who think differently. The other is to accept that we really can't know, but must go on anyway. I prefer the second way.

The Kilkenny Cats

When I came across this poem, I seemed to be reminded of something, but I don't know exactly what it might be. Does it remind you of anything?


The Kilkenny Cats

There wanst was two cats of Kilkenny,
Each thought there was one cat too many,
So they quarreled and they fit,
They scratch'd and they bit,
Till, barrin' their nails,
And the tips of their tails,
Instead of two cats, there warn't any.
-- Anonymous --

Loren Eiseley: We Are The Scriveners

We Are The Scriveners

I have not seen her in forty years.
She is old now, or lies in one of those midwestern
farm cemeteries where
no one remembers for long, because everyone
leaves for the cities. She was young, with freckles
and a wide generous mouth, a good girl to have
loved for a lifetime but the world
always chooses otherwise, or we ourselves
in blindness. I would not remember so clearly save that here
by a prairie slough sprinkled with the leaves of autumn
the drying mud on the shore shows the imprint
of southbound birds. I am too old to travel,
but I suddenly realize how a man in Sumer
half the world and millennia away
saw the same imprint and thought
there is a way of saying upon clay, fire-hardened,
there is a way of saying
"loneliness"
a way of saying
"where are you?" across the centuries
a way of saying
"forgive me"
a way of saying
"We were young. I remember, and this, this clay
imprinted with the feet of birds
will reach you somewhere
somehow
if it take eternity to answer."
There were men
like this in Sumer, or who wept among the
autumn papyrus leaves in Egypt.
We are the scriveners who with pain
outlasted our bodies.

-- Loren Eiseley --
from Another Kind of Autumn

Writing is a way of talking with someone, not only separated by distance, but also by time. Sometimes there's no way of answering; the best one can do is listen and pass on the message to someone who has yet to come. The spirit of the poem reminds me of one of my favorite poems by Walt Whitman--"A noiseless patient spider," the last stanza of which follows. You can read the complete poem if you scroll down to the bottom.


And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to
connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.


I think Eiseley and Whitman would understand each other.

Wallace Stevens: October 2, 1879 to August 2, 1955

An intriguing poem by Wallace Stevens. Actually, I'm not sure what to make of it.


The Silver Plough-Boy

A black figure dances in a black field.
It seizes a sheet, from the ground, from a bush, as if spread there
by some wash-woman for the night.
It wraps the sheet around its body, until the black figure is silver.
It dances down a furrow, in the early light, back of a crazy plough,
the green blades following.
How soon the silver fades in the dust! How soon the black figure
slips from the wrinkled sheet! How softly the sheet falls
to the ground!


The silver sheet--moonlight?

the black figure/green blades following: a god/deity responsible for fostering the growth of crops?

Serendipity

This is something new I've decided to try out. Some might call it blog clutter, but I prefer "Serendipity," which one source defines as "Good luck in making unexpected and fortunate discoveries." What this means here is that during my reading, I frequently come across poems, comments, quotations, even an occasional fact or two that I find interesting, and so I will post them here, more or less regularly.


My first Serendipity entry is a poem by Alexander Pope:


Ode on Solitude

Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Bless'd who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day;

Sound sleep by night: study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,
With Meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

-- Alexander Pope --

He's not asking for too much, is he? Just the simple things in life, the basic necessities.

The Rubaiyat: Quatrain XLII

Quatrain XLII is the fourth in a series of six linked quatrains, joined by references to the grape or wine.


First Edition: Quatrain XLII

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas-- the Grape!



Second Editioin: Quatrain LX

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas-- the Grape!



Fifth Edition: Quatrain LVIII

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas-- the Grape!



I can see only one difference among the three editions--the substitution of "shining" in the second edition for "stealing" in the first edition. The fifth edition is identical to the second edition. "Stealing through the Dusk" suggests a surreptitious movement, involving something illicit or perhaps immoral. And that's not an angel but "an Angel Shape", which could be an Angel from God or perhaps one of the fallen angels, a tempter in other words. This would fit nicely with "stealing through the Dusk." Alcohol, in any of its forms, definitely could be a temptation, especially to Moslems who were forbidden to drink alcohol, if I'm not mistaken.

The change, however, from "stealing" to "shining" is perplexing. It transforms the suggestion of something in the first edition that is best kept hidden to the complete opposite in the later editions--to something "shining" in the Dusk, and something the shines in the Dusk is even more obvious or noticeable than something shining in daylight. This leads us back to the second and third quatrains which mention a Tavern and dry customers clamoring for the door to open.

Perhaps a later quatrain might clarify the confusion here, or perhaps the confusion is a local confusion only--in me.

Paul Lawrence Dunbar: June 27, 1872--Feb. 07, 1906

A simple poem, almost childish, until the last stanza.



The Poet and His Song

A song is but a little thing,
And yet what joy it is to sing!
In hours of toil it give me zest,
And when at eve I long for rest;
When cows come home along the bars,
And in the fold I hear the bell,
As Night, the shepherd, herds his stars,
I sing my song, and all is well.

There are no ears to hear my lays,
No lips to lift a word of praise;
But still, with faith unfaltering,
I live and laugh and love and sing.
What matters yon unheeding throng?
They cannot feel my spirit's spell,
Since life is sweet and love is long,
I sing my song, and all is well.

My days are never days of ease;
I till my ground and prune my trees.
When ripened gold is all the plain
I put my sickle to the grain.
I labor hard, and toil and sweat,
While others dream within the dell;
But even while my brow is wet,
I sing my song, and all is well.

Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot,
My garden makes a desert spot;
Sometimes a blight upon the tree
Takes all my fruit away from me;
And then with throes of bitter pain
Rebellious passions rise and swell;
But--life is more than fruit or grain,
And so I sing, and all is well.




The poet/narrator is a hard-working farmer, and his songs help him through the day and through the hard times. But, the last two lines

"But--life is more than fruit or grain,
And so I sing, and all is well."


suggest something more profound than simple escapism.

Gwendolyn Brooks: June 7, 1917--Dec. 3, 2000

The following poem by Gwendolyn Brooks is stark and bare. Some poems may match, but I doubt any can surpass it. The speakers look at their future with a cold, unblinking eye. Even the name of the pool hall is prophetic.



WE REAL COOL

The Pool Players
Seven at the Golden Shovel.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

At first I thought it was a sad poem. But, now . . . I think it goes beyond sadness.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam: Quatrain XLI

This is the third quatrain in a set of six that are linked together by the mention of wine or the grape in various ways.


First Edition: Quatrain XLI

For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "Up-and-down" without, I could define,
I yet in all I only cared to know,
Was never deep in anything but--wine.



Second Edition: Quatrain LVIII

For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "Up-and-down" by Logic I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom, I
Was never deep in anything but--wine.


Fifth Edition: Quatrain LVI

For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "Up-and-down" by Logic I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom, I
Was never deep in anything but--wine.


FitzGerald has made some interesting changes, but none that really affects the basic theme of the quatrain--that he was very familiar with Logic and Reason, but all that he really cared for was wine.

In the first line, the only change in the second and fifth editions, I can detect is that "with" is no longer in italics, as it is in the first edition, and the same is true for "without" in the second line. The addition of "by Logic" in the second and fifth editions might be made to clarify the meaning. I suspect there were many who didn't understand what he was referring to by "Is" and "Is-not" and "Rule and Line," so he provided the phrase to make his point more accessible to readers.

In the third line, he plays a little game with a word that has disparate, but related meanings. "Fathom" has several definitions: one, when a noun, is that of a measurement of marine depths, while another, when a verb, is "to get to the bottom of" or to "penetrate to the meaning of." In the second and fifth editions, "cared to know" is replaced by "care to fathom. So, what he was most interested in (care to fathom) was getting to the bottom or or meaning of is wine, for he "Was never deep in anything but--wine," a reference to nautical depth.

Again the theme of the uselessness of logic or reason makes its appearance--another attack on the long-winded, sometimes acrimonious, and fruitless discussions about issues we can know nothing about: where we came from, why we are here, and where we are going.

Walt Whitman: May 31, 1819 to March 26, 1892

From Song of Myself, Stanza 50


There is that in me--I do not know what it is--but I know it is in me.

Wrench'd and sweaty--calm and cool then my body becomes,
I sleep--I sleep long.

I do not know it--it is without name--it is a word unsaid,
It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol.

Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.

Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines! I plead for my brothers and sisters.

Do you see O my brothers and sisters?
It is not chaos or death--it is form, union, plan-- it is eternal life--it is Happiness.



From China, over 2000 years ago:

The Tao that can be told of
Is not the Absolute Tao;
The Names that cannot be given
Are not Absolute Names.

The Nameless is the origin of Heaven and Earth;
The Named is the Mother of all Things.

From The Wisdom of Laotse (The Tao Te Ching)
Trans. Lin Yutang


Some ideas don't arise and die out; they linger, perhaps ignored for centuries, but they arise here and there sporadically. I think Laotse and Walt Whitman might well understand each other, far more than I can understand each. At best I get a glimpse of what they are hinting at, but only a glimpse, and also the feeling that I'm missing something here.

Whitman, of course, contradicts himself, as most do when they attempt to speak of that which cannot be spoken of. He says that there is something within him that is unknowable, save for its existence, and without name. And, then the last line:

It is not chaos or death--it is form, union, plan-- it is eternal life--it is Happiness.

Perhaps through writing about it, he is able to give it a name?

In Memoriam: Langston Hughes Feb. 1, 1902--May 22, 1967

Afro-American Fragment

So long,
So far away
Is Africa.
Not even memories alive
Save those that history books create,
Save those that songs
Beat back into the blood--
Beat out of blood with words sad-sung
In strange un-Negro tongue--
So long,
So far away
Is Africa.

Subdued and time-lost
Are the drums--and yet
Through some vast mist of race
There comes this song
I do not understand,
This song of atavistic land,
Of bitter yearnings lost
Without a place--
So long,
So far away
Is Africa's
Dark face.

-- Langston Hughes --
from Selected Poems of Langston Hughes

Emily Dickinson: Dec 10, 1830--May 15, 1886, In Memoriam

Emily Dickinson lived only fifty-six years, and much of that time as a recluse. However, the almost 1800 poems that she wrote will keep her memory alive as long as someone still reads poetry.

Dickinson never used titles for her poems, which creates a problem for her editors. One solution has been to use the first line as a title. There is now a second solution, now that all of her poems have been collected into one volume--The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson--which is edited by Thomas H. Johnson. He has tried to order the poems chronologically and has numbered them. So, I will use the numbering system devised by Johnson. Readers trying to locate the poems in other collections should search on the first line of the poem.


Dickinson wrote a large number of poems that dealt with death, so I again thought it appropriate to post one of them today. This is one of her most anthologized poems.



No. 465

I heard a Fly buzz--when I died--
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air--
Between the Heaves of the Storm--

The Eyes around--had wrong them dry--
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset--when the King
Be witnessed--in the Room--

I willed my Keepsakes--Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable--and then it was
There interposed a Fly--

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

-- Emily Dickinson --


The last line has always intrigued me--"I could not see to see--" Why not simply "I could not see"?