Antiquitopia

A little over Jordan, As Genesis record, An Angel and a Wrestler Did wrestle long and hard. Till morning touching mountain, And Jacob waxing strong, The Angel begged permission To breakfast and return. "Not so," quoth wily Jacob, And girt his loins anew, "Until thou bless me, stranger!" The which acceded to: Light swung the silver fleeces Peniel hills among, And the astonished Wrestler Found he had worsted God! Dickinson sensitively interprets the ambiguity between the "man" Jacob wrestles and the culminating verse where Jacob names the place of the wrestling match Peniel, "For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved" (Gen. 32:30), turning the ambiguity of the ancient text into a moment of delayed realization by Jacob--it is here, I think, that the astonishing impact of the poem lies. She leaves out, however, the impact, import, and perhaps transformative aspect of naming in the passage as Jacob, the swindler who grabs at the ...

The Bible is an antique volume Written by faded men, At the suggestion of Holy Spectres-- Subjects--Bethlehem-- Eden--the ancient Homestead-- Satan--the Brigadier, Judas--the great Defaulter, David--the Troubadour. Sin--a distinguished Precipice Others must resist, Boys that "believe" Are very lonesome-- Other boys are "lost." Had but the tale a warbling Teller All the boys would come-- Orpheus' sermon captivated, It did not condemn. ~Emily Dickinson

Because I read a lot on the Sabbath, I am largely drawn to places in literature and poetry where the Sabbath pops up. It shows up, for example, in a few Paul Celan poems. It is rumored that toward the end of his life, he kept a copy of Abraham Joshua Heschel's amazing meditation on the Sabbath on his nightstand. I just ran across a Dickinson poem that also speaks of the Sabbath, differentiating between the Sabbath of church and the Sabbath of creation/nature (or perhaps N ature): Some keep the Sabbath going to church; I keep it staying at home, With a bobolink for a chorister, And an orchard for a dome. Some keep the Sabbath in surplice; I just wear my wings, And instead of tolling the bell for church, Our little sexton sings. God preaches,-a noted clergyman,- And the sermon is never long; So instead of getting to heaven at last, I'm going all along! She presents this nature's Sabbath as a more direct link to God (God is, indeed, the clergyman!) than to any organized re...

I just found the following Dickinson poem striking, although it is not directly related to the general issues of this blog: We never know how high we are Till we are called to rise; And then, if we are true to plan, Our statures touch the skies. The heroism we recite Would be a daily thing, Did not ourselves the cubits warp For fear to be a king.

Two poems, again by Dickinson, which I think go well when read together: Forbidden fruit a flavor has That lawful orchards mocks; How luscious lies the pea within The pod that duty locks! I love the lolling, alluring alliteration in these lines. The seductive sounds themselves become forbidden fruit. But I wonder how to interpret with the next poem (which also comes next in the volume of collected poems): Heaven is what I cannot reach! The apple on the tree, Provided it do hopeless hang, That "heaven" is, to me. The color on the cruising cloud, The interdicted ground Behind the hill, the house behind,- There paradise is found! Reading this poem directly after the other, the forbidden fruit itself becomes the emblem of paradise rather than paradise lost. The apple is "heaven." But it remains just out of reach, as the first line announces, and hidden just out of sight--in the clouds, on interdicted ground, and doubly "behind."

A few days ago, I posted on definitions of faith from the NYTimes from Hebrews to the most skeptical to everything in the middle. Here is a reflection on faith by Emily Dickinson: Faith is a fine invention For gentlemen who see; But microscopes are prudent In an emergency. This is the entirety of a very short (four-lined!) poem. Like all of her poems, it is atitular. It is a nice rhythm and rhyme, making, like a great many of her poems, only the second and fourth lines rhyme. I thought the term "invention" striking here. Invented suggests constructed, created, perhaps even contrived, but nonetheless "fine." But it is only fine within certain bounds, fenced in by "gentlemen who see" and "emergency." The first is inclusive and the second exclusive: it is fine for those who see, but not in an emergency. Who are "those who see"? Are they the "pure in heart" (for they shall see God)? Perhaps an allusion to the (false) et...

Much madness is divinest sense To a discerning eye; Much sense the starkest madness. 'T is the majority In this, as all, prevails. Assent, and you are sane; Demur,-you're straightaway dangerous, And handled with a chain. ~Emily Dickinson

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young. His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old; What interested scholars most, What competitions ran When Plato was a certainty, And Sophocles a man; When Sappho was a living girl, And Beatrice wore The gown that Dante deified. Facts, centuries before, He traverses familiar, As one should come to town And tell you all your dreams were true: He lived where dreams were born. His presence is enchantment, You beg him not to go; Old volumes shake their vellum heads And tantalize, just so. ~Emily Dickinson