“Nothing is the word that renovates the world.” The sentence fairly leaped off the page, seizing my shoulder, sitting me down to start this post. Reading a couple of lines further that “No is the wildest word we consign to language” flashed an insight so briefly, leaving in its wake an afterglow barely visible but definitely not a mirage. That’s reading Emily Dickinson in Seatttle this winter evening. Much has been said about her poetry, her life and that sense of mystery, but you will see that it got closer to home. As an awkward high school sophomore lurking about the halls of Lincoln High, before empowering became a cliche in the corporate world, I was empowered by her permission to select a society of one, dignified by a virtual stone door. Many years later, I sometimes wonder about her reasons for choosing to live isolated from the outside world. Inspite of her isolation, she transformed the world of many readers, this one especially, across space and time — the effect of her poetry is not unlike that of an isolation transformer. Lest you think that this notion is far-fetched, consider that the ioslation transformer transfers power in the form of AC current from the source via the primary winding to the load at the secondary winding, the primary and secondary not connected by conduction but by induction. In safety application, this isolation protects the users of the device connected to the secondary winding while transfering power to the device. Likewise, her poetry provides power to assuage my needs for beauty while protecing me from her piercing gaze into human frailties, most– if not all — of which I am a bearer.
The effort to understand her influence even after all these years reduces me to a mass of uncertainty. Is it her wry humor seeing that bird coming down the walk, the reckless abandonment in the wild night that invokes such shudderingly delicious delight, the condescension proferring to death, or that formal feeling comes after great pain? Is there an alchemy that eludes me? Or all it takes is to pay close attention to the words, as Fasrnoosh Fathi wisely pointed out?
It was not a book, but a bundle of letters and rumination in my imagination, with bunches of lavender strewn about. I remember the warmth of the satisfaction reading about the letters edged with gold stripes found by Jen and Margueritte as they cleared up the attic of their great aunt to prepare for Margueritte’s wedding chamber in “As the Earth Turned”, me whose feet barely found balance landing in Portland after the fall of Saigon. This is not meant to be autobiographical so I will stop while I still can, echoes from my mother’s reading of Alphonse Daudet still resonate and for that I am thankful.
Thank you for the many pleasures, dear muse.
1) The protrait of Emily Dickinson is from http://www.opb.org/artsandlife/article/npr-emily-dickinsons-envelope-writings-gorgeous-poetry-in-3-d/
2) The fragments of her poems are from http://www.opb.org/artsandlife/article/npr-emily-dickinsons-envelope-writings-gorgeous-poetry-in-3-d/
3) The transformer diagram is from http://cnx.org/content/m42416/latest/
4) The fireside reader painting is from http://fineartamerica.com/art/paintings/reader/all