Editing Emily
Do you know what I hate? People who try to edit Emily Dickinson. Sorry, I just came from my english lecture-allow me to elaborate. Emily Dickinson, as you may or may not be aware, is a poet who lived in the 19th century (1830-1886) and I have my suspicions that she just might be the most brilliant writer EVER. Her poems are eloquent, witty and beautiful. Unlike so many poets of her time, she does not suffer from "verbal diarrhea" - nothing is ever wasted.
The problem with Emily, is that her work does not resolve. She uses almost no punctuation, capitalizes words wherever she feels like it and often leaves her verses hanging with a rhyme that isn't quite what you want it to be. I think they do this sort of thing in music too...what do you call it...off beat? Anyway, most of Emily's work was not published until after her death so people thought that they should "tie up loose ends" before showing it to the world. Today in lecture, we looked at some originals and compared them to the edited versions. It may seem silly to get so emotional over someone who is dead, but when I saw what the editors did to Emily, I thought I was going to cry. Her poetry was so beautifully mysterious- but they sucked her dry of all complexity until her words were nothing but hallmark style clichés. Personally, I think her editors (who were probably a bunch of bitter, old men) were just jealous. Jealous that they were not so brilliant. Maybe they were a little angry too, at Emily's ambiguity. Angry at the way she refused to be simple and romantic and "feminine" like they wanted her to be.
I always thought that Emily Dickinson should have married Claude Monet. He would have understood her. He would not have tried to make her be sentimental and romantic. I think they would have had spent many pleasant afternoons together out in the garden, she writing her poems and he painting the sky. I think they would have been very much in love and have cast secret adoring glances across the lawn when they thought the other one wasn't looking.
confessions of an (un)broken heart.
To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one...Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishess. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless- it will change. It will not be broken, it will become unbreakable, inpenetrable, irredeemable.-C.S. LewisC.S. Lewis said all that stuff, and besides being a genuis, I think he was right. I think we all (and by we all, I mean me) secretly want our hearts to be unbreakable. I think we all carry them around in these cases of bullet proof glass and spend most of our time making pleasant conversation about nothing.
I cannot speak for others, but I know that my own heart is a fortress; you know, one of those cool-looking ones where there are spot lights and watch towers and such? It is surrounded by a lot of barbed wire and high-tech security systems and a couple of big scary-looking dogs that bark very loudly in my ear any time anyone even gets close to Fort Erin (as I like to call it). Not that you could tell that if you met me; I think I look pretty normal. If you met me you would probably think that I am nice (at least I hope you would think that) and you might even find me mildly amusing. I like to make jokes. Jokes make me feel important and funny. Jokes make me feel like I am in control. Jokes make me forget that I am actually kind of boring (once you get to know me), and kind of scared and kind of lonely under all my fire-redardant sarcasm.
To be honest though, I have found that the Fort Erin system has been working quite well for me so far. I have never suffered from a broken heart. Dead, cold-maybe, but certainly never broken. The problem with all of this is God (and he is always the problem). God keeps on insisting that I need to love people; and what's worse, God keeps on insisting that I need to let myself be loved. He tells me that it's time to take my heart out of it's coffin and let it breathe a little and I have this sinking feeling that maybe he is right...
Jan 27, 2006
1:39 p.m.
This post is dedicated to a friend, who suggested that I stop putting only poems on my blog and actually write something real.
Free Verse
Clearly,
the Poet was
_________________blurring the lines_________________blending the lies
between what she means and_______________________what she cansay.
say. what did you say
I can’t seem to
____________didn’t youHave it your way
____then-
Her words in______________ your mouth on____________________your lips in
________________________your ear
will speak
___________fraudulent truths
_______________-that word there, this pause here-
till her voices and
__________________verses and
___________________________dis-
_____________________________joint-
________________________________ed lines
are a shrine built to
_____________________all that you
___________________________wanted to
Here.
meet Me at the sea
And if your heart is breaking, Love
it's only broken ice
another frozen river.
Cracked because it's springtime
Cracked because I AM.
I AM the lonely current,
returned to spurn you on
bleeding black beneath the surface.
Always longing for our union,
always rushing to the sea.
