EVENING, Emily Dickinson
She sweeps with many-colored brooms,
And leaves the shreds behind;
Oh, housewife in the evening west,
Come back, and dust the pond!
You dropped a purple ravelling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you've littered all the East
With duds of emerald!
And still she plies her spotted brooms,
And still the aprons fly,
Till brooms fade softly into stars -
And then I come away.
I don't remember my first encounter with the strange beauty and enigmatic brevity of Emily Dickinson's poems. More than many others I've read, even favourite poems of hers read differently every time; they evade critical and even appreciative capture. If poems are capable of playing hard to get, then many of her poems do frustrate our desire to possess, our drive to understand, and refuse to pander to our insecurity pushing us to pin down meaning. What on earth does it 'mean' to say "Till brooms fade softly into stars" - and then you realise, that what it 'means' isnt the point. In six words she makes the transition from dusk to darkness, and the word 'softly' is hushed with reassuring gentleness. It isn't too speculative to say this poem is informed by witnessing hundreds of performances by "the housewife in the evening west".
I am ridiculously fond of fudge with stem ginger, covered in dark chocolate. The collision of flavours and richness of each slice means you don't eat it like sweeties! A bar of this connoiseur's confection lasts me a month (it's quite a big bar though). Likewise Dickinson's poems - hers is a book on my desk and I seldom read more than one or two poems at a time. What a waste of taste, sensation and anticipation to sit down and devour them without lingering over the sheer joy of sampling each poem. Aye, chocolate covered ginger fudge, and Emily Dickinson's poems - you could do worse than enjoy both, together.
The first photo was taken from my study window; the second from a layby near Sherrifmuir looking north west.
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