Saturday, June 5, 2010
"Into the lap of the adamant," where Emily Dickinson would lead us
This one's for Andrew, in Vermont, which out New Englands much of New England, being as northern as a state can be without changing its name to Alaska.
Okay. With Dickinson, with most poets, the "place" can always be the soul, and yes, we do strive, each of us, to appreciate, love, nature's analogs of joy--the sheer amazement of a flower simple as a daisy, let alone the rest of the garden, can serve as interior states of being.
The gardener Dickinson also loved the garden. So no analog is necessary, though we can identify with Summer taking delight in her daisies, and being subsumed by things Wintry.
What is delightful here is the idea of Summer, so notoriously lazy, as striving, in this case to overcome Winter's frost. Also delightful, Summer's inventories. Let's see, Summer thinks in January. Where'd I put those daisies; well, I guess they are lost.
And then in May (or whenever), the lost is found, the daisies can be checked off the list. Summer must be careful as a Virgo, or, more likely, home-centered as a Cancer. But oh, weak-willed Summer gives into the winds stirring things up. Dickinson is okay with that, and if she is, so am I.
Now frost is dew quickening to quartz. Lovely. "Quartz -- upon her Amber
shoe." I'm not sure, except that amber is like frost or ice in its attribute of encasing branches and twigs--anything available, and its sunny-ness implicates Summer Sun. In other words, the warmth of summer is caught by Winter, as if in amber, as the South Wind hums her sweet refrains.
Look it. I have decided to blog every single day in June. I left this until late, which isn't to say I don't stand by what I write, but that I recognize it's incomplete. Nonetheless, it's fun to write literary criticism-to-appreciation directly in a blog. Thank you for reading this. Dang, I see I'm a few minutes past deadline. Well....
I know a place where Summer strives
With such a practised Frost --
She -- each year -- leads her Daisies back --
Recording briefly -- "Lost" --
But when the South Wind stirs the Pools
And struggles in the lanes --
Her Heart misgives Her, for Her Vow --
And she pours soft Refrains
Into the lap of Adamant --
And spices -- and the Dew --
That stiffens quietly to Quartz --
Upon her Amber Shoe --