Grace R.'s Moleskine Pages #1

POEM 1/ March 30

(443)

I tie my Hat — I crease my Shawl —
Life's little duties do — precisely —
As the very least
Were infinite — to me —

I put new Blossoms in the Glass —
And throw the old — away —
I push a petal from my Gown
That anchored there — I weigh
The time 'twill be till six o'clock
I have so much to do —
And yet — Existence — some way back —
Stopped — struck — my ticking — through —

We cannot put Ourself away
As a completed Man
Or Woman — When the Errand's done
We came to Flesh — upon —
There may be — Miles on Miles of Nought —
Of Action — sicker far —
To simulate — is stinging work —
To cover what we are
From Science — and from Surgery —

Too Telescopic Eyes
To bear on us unshaded —
For their — sake — not for Ours —
'Twould start them —
We — could tremble —
But since we got a Bomb —
And held it in our Bosom —
Nay — Hold it — it is calm —

Therefore — we do life's labor —
Though life's Reward — be done —
With scrupulous exactness —
To hold our Senses — on —

*

This little poem about the agony of "weighing" the time "till six o'clock" is one of Dickinson's great explorations of domestic routine as measured against eternity. "I have much to do" she writes; and yet "existence--some way back--/stopped--stuck--my ticking through."

I chose to look at it first in our "stopped--stuck" semester, because we're all suddenly keenly aware of "existence" itself as we reestablish routines "as the very least/ were infinite." I'm sure it has occurred to you that our interiors--our bounded environments, however large or small, and wherever we find ourselves--are suddenly our entire worlds; our predicament or opportunity mirrors Dickinson's.

*

Remember eons ago, when we had our last class together, we were thinking about the publication histories of Dickinson's poems. A brief recap: she hand-wrote them on stationery, notebook paper, or, sometimes, scraps she found around her house; ten or so were taken from her and published without her permission; many of the rest were found by her sister, after her death, in a locked drawer in her bedroom, with another large group in the possession of her sister-in-law, Susan Gilbert Dickinson.

There are two important editions of her poems. The number on this one, 443, is the file number used by Thomas Johnson, who edited the first important modern edition of her work in the fifties. But R.W. Franklin, who published his own edition decades later, made many discoveries in the meantime. This is poem # 522 in Franklin. Franklin also  significantly changes Johnson's version of the poem. Here is Franklin's poem # 508:

(508)

A Pit — but Heaven over it —

A Pit — but Heaven over it —

And Heaven beside, and Heaven abroad;

And yet a Pit —

With Heaven over it.

To stir would be to slip —

To look would be to drop —

To dream — to sap the Prop

That holds my chances up.

Ah! Pit! With Heaven over it!

The depth is all my thought —

I dare not ask my feet —

'Twould start us where we sit

So straight you'd scarce suspect

It was a Pit — with fathoms under it —

It's Circuit just the same

Whose Doom to whom

'Twould start them –

We – could tremble –

But since we got a Bomb –

And held it in our Bosom –

Nay – Hold it – it is calm –

*

So, in the comments section, I welcome any and all responses and any and all kinds of responses. If the question of those lines in bold, above, interests you, then see if you can find out on the archive or through other research what's up. 

You could also discuss the lines in bold, and why they do or do not belong with poem 443. Where are they better suited? It's obviously not possible to determine what ED intended, so it's up to us to figure it out.

I'd also welcome comments on some of the lines/images/distinctions that intrigue you, or especially characteristic words or ideas you've encountered from other ED poems, or things that seem surprising, out of left field. 

We'll discuss this poem tomorrow in our Zoom session--more on that soon.

Dan