Part One of "The Complete Poems" contains yet more of Ms. Dickinson’s most well-known poems, including “Much Madness is Divinest Sense”, “I Taste a Liquor Never Brewed”, “I’m nobody! Who are you?” and “Hope is the thing with feathers”. They are famous and well-known for a reason.
I’m going to skip past them, simply because they are well-known and beloved. I am such a rebel.
Instead, I'll begin with a poem that I forgot I knew: “The soul selects her own society”.
"The soul selects her own society
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.”
I particularly like this poem because I tend to be a little antisocial. I think it's anxiety or shyness. It takes me awhile. Once I care about somebody (once they have been "selected"), they are in solidly and it takes emotional dynamite to remove them. Opening the door to that society (and the older you get, the less knockers there are), is hard to do. Perhaps I fear vulnerability? I'm not sure. But this is how I am. Like Ms. Dickinson, I could probably live easily with just my family off on some estate, communicating with the world only by letter (email/facebook). It's probably healthier for me that this is not an option.
I find the title of this next poem, “I had no time to hate”, ironic, because it seems like no matter how busy we get as a society, or even as a family, there is always time to hate something or someone. I'm not saying it's appropriate, but it'd be naive to pretend it doesn't exist.
"I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity...
Much as I like the optimism, I feel compelled to point something out. The average life span has now at least doubled, if not tripled, since this poem was written. Speaking exclusively from a time management vantage, that's really not a concern anymore. You've got plenty of time. Modern medicine has marvels, and not wearing a corset constantly helps too, I'm sure.
We are also living in a highly social, crowded world. I'm sure it would be very easy to avoid hating your immediate family and the servants on your estate. Living in isolation, you can effectively, select your own society (see what I did there?). Most of us aren't doing this, however. We are living in large groups in communities, many members of which do. not. know. how. to. drive. the way my husband thinks they should.
The existence, alone, of 24 hour news networks also makes it far easier to hate, and gives us more knowledge of people in the world who are available, even if long-distance, to direct our enmity towards.
Second stanza:
"Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me."
See, we always find time for things we want to do. This is why I haven't finished repainting my sons' playroom but I am up to episode 74 of Star Trek: The Next Generation on Netflix. But beware, Ms. Dickinson, beware. Love doesn't always work out well or easily. You have told us this before.
I chose the poem “For each ecstatic instance” from the first line index because the first line made me want to read the rest of the poem. If it were simply called "Balance" or "Harmony", I probably wouldn't have clicked and read it. Well-played, Ms. Dickinson, well-played.
“For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.”
I can do ratios. I had algebra lovingly beaten into my head. 1:1 ecstasy to anguish. Got it. I even agree with it. I am a big fan of the cosmic balance theories. I am a Virgo. Justice, harmony and all that stuff appeals to me. I am also a mother. Heartache exists in that condition, in spite of (or perhaps because of) the sheer wonder and joy of it all. Becoming a mother was the most joyous and amazing blessing of my life. Learning that my oldest son is autistic was one of the greatest sorrows and has certainly provided me with great moments of anguish (to borrow Ms. Dickinson's word). We don't sit around everyday as a family moping and Eeyore-ing, but autism is always there, always a part of our lives, no matter how much we may try to ignore it, like that one roommate in college who you just can't get along with but can't fight with because you still have to live together at the end of the day and the semester's almost over anyways.
I am particularly struck in this first stanza, by her brilliant word choice in using "keen". Multiple meaning words for the win!
keen- adj. 1. finely sharpened, as an edge; so shaped as to cut or pierce substances readily.
2. sharp, piercing, or biting
keen - noun. 1. a wailing lament for the dead
keen - verb. 1. to bewail or lament by or with keening
I love the English language, and I love poets who know how to use it well.
For my next adventures with Ms. Dickinson, I will be exploring Part Two: Nature and Part Three: Love. I'm sure there won't be several hundred excellent poems to choose from given those topics.
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