Dishonored Grass

A tribute to Emily Dickinson.

Of Bronze -- and Blaze -- 
The North -- tonight -- 
So adequate -- it forms -- 
So preconcerted with itself -- 
So distant -- to alarms -- 

In Amherst, Massachusetts

The sparrows and the robins spiral by,

Alight upon the common

And shake their wings in clouds of dust.

The Bank of America 

Will tell you how the sun rose,

One ribbon at a time.

The Amity Street graffito

Pleads for humankind.

A sandwich board on Pleasant Street proclaims

Les jambes de vingt ans sont faites 

Pour aller au bout du monde.

The traveler has taken

Almost a day to reach the town.

The Peter Pan bus left Manhattan at dawn,

Rolled on through the city

And Connecticut's morning mist.

He is not sure if he would tip his hat

To a name like "Massachusetts,"

But "Amherst" brings him joy.

The gravestones of the West Cemetery 

Gleam in the summer noon.

The traveler arrives at Emily's grave.

A rusted fence protects the plot, before which

The earth is trod bare.

Three pebbles lay upon the stone,

And at its base a pot of purple flowers.

A bluejay lights upon a stone, and flies away. 

He approaches Homestead with a shudder.

The marble mantle bears red goblets

And candles made of beeswax.

Here is the chestnut burr and the sherry glass.

Upstairs, in the display case, is the short white dress 

That she once wore, and here is her room.

By the Franklin stove she warmed herself,

And on the tiny desk with the kerosene lamp

She wrote, and gazed from these four windows

Where the light slants from the north.

My Splendors are Menagerie -- 
But their Completeless Show
Will entertain the Centuries
When I, am long ago,
An Island in dishonored Grass -- 
Whom none but Beetles know -- 

Author's Note

The French quote can be translated as "The legs of a twenty year old are made to go to the ends of the earth."

Reviews

[Eilis]

The poet’s pilgrimage. The bookends of her poem act like covers to your story. Perhaps a most important poem to the speaker or perhaps symbolic of that moment. The reason seems unimportant, but for me it acts as an opening of the self and sharing in a way that feels still able to remain obscured. As Emily did in her life. There was the need to speak but also the need for distance. She seemed unable to choose between the two and as a result we are now still so fascinated with her, in part, because of all we don’t know. The more we must imagine, the more our imagination flowers the questions. Or gives them longer teeth—depending on the context and power of the question.

I enjoy the dynamic of tension and release here. It feels like a constant fluctuation. When is it ever ok to let go. I feel Emily’s poetry addressed that question in many ways. I feel your poem does as well. But also it speaks to that part of us that hungers to understand. The mysteries and the loves and all things in between. The beauty of things both lost and preserved. This is lovely work. Reverent and exacting as your poetry always feels to me.

[Casey Truax]

Your insights are always rewarding. Thank you very much.

[Fabian G. Franklin]

I love Emily. One reason I love the writing of Dickinson so much is that she shunned traditional form and wrote from the heart. If you'll look on my profile you'll find a brilliant poem by her there. I saw her photo and that drew me here. This was a moving tribute.

[Casey Truax]

The poem you quoted is great and one I haven't read before. Thank you.