Of Artistry and Seclusion

Heart, we will forget him!

You and I, to-night!

You may forget the warmth he gave,

I will forget the light.

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When you have done, pray tell me,

That I my thoughts may dim,

Haste! lest while you're lagging,

I may remember him!

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Emily, oh Emily. It's all your fault. You were the one that made me a sucker for poetry. It all began with you, and I must give you the nod of respect that is due.

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Calling all artists: would you forsake human contact so as to better work your art?

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Calling all lovers: would you forsake the world to avoid the pain of lost love?

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Emily Dickinson speaks to me. I wonder about her, and I too find myself drawn in by the spinster that seems to understand better than anyone else what life is like. I find myself beyond words when I try to talk about Dickinson's poetry. Perhaps becuase in so few words she already says it all. Yet, we know so little of her. But I would argue that we all know her intimately.

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The letters Sue kept from Emily seem to imply more than just the closeness of best friends. And the mourning in Emily's poetry seems to denote something similar. Did Emily fall in love with Sue? It would seem so. Does that change my opinion of the poet? Absolutely not.

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To me, mourning love is very similar to mourning death. Both are a loss, and both feel as if a part of oneself is broken in the process.

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I held a jewel in my fingers

And went to sleep.

The day was warm, and winds were prosy,

I said: " 'T will keep."

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I woke and chid my honest fingers,-

The gem was gone;

And now an amethyst remembrance

Is all I own.

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No matter how honest one's fingers are, no matter how tight we might hold on to that which is dear to us, love can be lost. And the remembrance, amethyst, yes. Like the most fleeting part of twilight which offers neither warmth of day nor the comfort of darkness. Amethyst indeed, is heartbreak.

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I may stumble a bit with Dickinson and love, because Dickinson and I match closer with death, I find.

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She went as quiet as the dew

From a familiar flower.

Not like the dew did she return

At the accustomed hour!

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She dropt softly as a star

From out my summer's eve;

Less skillful than Leverrier

It's sorer to believe!

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I can only tie heartbreak to death since I experienced my first of each at the same time. I wrote pages upon pages of stories about it- death and heartbreak, heartbreak and death... And redemption. Always a redemption. And I cannot help but feel, just on the cumulus edges of Dickinson's poetry, that she feels the same way too. There is respite from and for the world in art. And in art can we give that respite.

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After class on Thursday, our last day together, I went to Inniswood Gardens with a friend and read Dickinson aloud in the park. I stopped at various spots and read to the budding flowers and the still sleeping trees. I thought that Dickinson must have truly loved this time of year, when death and life and delicacy are mingled so closely. As I read, it began to rain, and the first droplet hit like tears on the page. I thought immediately that it was very appropriate.

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You see, mourning at the very end is like this time of year too. All of you in the winter months, the hoarfrost of grief, feels as dead as the person you lost, the love you lost. But you are still alive somewhere under the snows, and if another blizzard doesn't come to bury you, you thaw. It is spring for me in this way too this year. I think Dickinson would approve of the metaphor. And the rain.

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She was so sad. But she found joy in her work. In a way, she wasn't secluded at all.

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She was completely free.

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Someday I hope I can be as free as she was.

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Emily Dickinson is, in a fashion, my idol.

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To Emily

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Woman in White-

Where is your lover now?

You spoke of him with such ardor.

So swiftly passes reality.

Woman in White-

Did you forget about the world?

Or did it forget you

Until your fragile voice

Floated from the maw of death-

A nightingale.

Woman in White-

You should have worn red.

Your spirit demanded it.

But white!

A snowdrop-

A blank page.

A Woman in White.

You were too much for color.

You needed something to fill.

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Jennifer Rish

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If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can cease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.