More Weather

#315

He fumbles at your Soul

As Players at the Keys

Before they drop full Music on --

He stuns you by degrees --

Prepares your brittle Nature

For the Ethereal Blow

By fainter Hammers -- further heard --

Then nearer -- Then so slow --

Your Breath has time to straighten --

Your Brain -- to bubble Cool --

Deals -- One -- imperial -- Thunderbolt --

That scalps your naked Soul --

 

When Winds take Forests in their Paws --

The Universe -- is still --

 

-Emily Dickinson

 

It's possible thunderstorm weather for us, sticky, though now there's a breeze picking up.  Fainter Hammers have indeed been further heard. So far not any nearer. It's still possible any actual rain will blow right past us.

 

Emily Dickinson, of course, didn't title her poems with numbers--they had no titles--and the numbers I use come from the Thomas H. Johnson edition of 1955. It's popular and it's what I have. He numbers the poems in the order he believes they were composed. Last week's poem was number #316, and he assigns them both to 1862. Assuming his dating is right, she was working out a theme at the time. And just what was the weather like in Amherst in June of 1862?

The Wind

 

#316

The Wind didn't come from the Orchard -- today --

Further than that ---

Nor stop to play with the Hay --

Nor joggle a Hat --

He's a transitive Fellow -- very --

Rely on that --

 

If He leave a Bur at the Door

We know He has climbed a Fir --

But the Fir is Where -- Declare --

Were you ever there?

 

If He brings Odors of Clovers --

And that is His business -- not Ours --

Then He has been with the Mowers --

Whetting away the Hours

To sweet pauses of Hay --

His Way -- of a June Day --

 

If He fling Sand, and Pebble --

Little Boys Hats -- and Stubble --

With an occasional Steeple --

And a hoarse "Get out of the way, I say,"

Who'd be the fool to stay?

Would you -- Say --

Would you be the fool to stay?

 

-Emily Dickinson

 

This just seemed to fit the season. The wind frequently leaves Bur/pine cones on our doorstep, though I moved this one up a couple of steps to get the door in. We know where those come from: there's a giant pine tree in our front yard, so I Declare I have been there. Our backyard Orchard is two apples and a pear--none of which bear much fruit, alas, too shady and too many squirrels--but if we get blossom smells, which we did last night, it's from the lilac bushes of our neighbors to the north.

 

The Mowers have been busy this season, and we get plenty of Clover smell, too. So far--fortunately--no occasional Steeple has landed in our front yard, though the Anglican church is only a block away...

 

 

Brooms of Steel? Or Shovels of Plastic?

 

Looking northeast from my front stoop this evening

#1252 

 

Like Brooms of Steel

The Snow and Wind

Had swept the Winter Street -

The House was hooked

The Sun sent out

Faint Deputies of Heat -

Where rode the Bird

The Silence tied

His ample - plodding Steed

The Apple in the Cellar snug

Was all the one that played.

 

-Emily Dickinson

I searched for Emily Dickinson winter poem and this was what DuckDuckGo produced for me. I will have read it before but I didn't really remember it; it was suggested by this post.

 

It wasn't Brooms of Steel that shovelled that walk, but my nice kid (?25--that makes him a kid to me these days) neighbour to the north, who this morning not only shovelled his walk and the laneway between the houses, but then went on to do my walk as well. It continued snowing most of the day, but before I even got around to doing the touch up, he'd done it. I did manage to shovel the flat part of our roof--shovelling is not the worst of household chores I feel, and I--almost--missed having a chance to do it.

 

You might call what the city's snowplow has Brooms of Steel, I suppose. 

 

Our weather's been odd. Snow, a bit over a week ago, which suggested last week's Frost poem, but then everything melted again, and just today we had a significant new snow, so another snow poem was called for after all. The Deputies of Heat today were indeed fairly faint. (A high of 15F.)

Linda Sue Grimes, whose post I poached from, reminds that hooking is something one does to produce rugs (I can't give you any details) and suggests that the Steed the bird rides is a tree. Certainly the pine tree of our front yard in the picture is a welcome home to birds.

Emily Dickinson

#1075

The Sky is low -- the Clouds are mean.

A Travelling Flake of Snow

Across a Barn or through a Rut

Debates if it will go --

A Narrow Wind complains all Day

How some one treated him

Nature, like Us is sometimes caught

Without her Diadem.

-Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson is probably my favorite writer of ballad-meter poems, and when I was thinking about ballads, I pulled the book off the shelf & started browsing. I must have read this one before, but I didn't remember it, and it struck me on this reading. Though not yet seasonally appropriate: we've had glorious Indian Summer weather lately (at least until tonight when we're getting a light rain) and they're predicting more lovely weather next week. But maybe the poem is newish to you, too.

But in case that's not enough... 😉 One of my favorites, and a more commonly anthologized poem:

#410

We grow accustomed to the Dark --

When Light is put away --

As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp

To witness her Goodbye --

A Moment -- We uncertain step

For newness of the night --

Then -- fit our vision to the Dark --

And meet the Road -- erect --

And so of larger -- Darknesses --

Those Evenings of the Brain --

When not a Moon disclose a sign --

Or Star -- come out -- within --

The Bravest -- grope a little --

And sometimes hit a Tree

Directly in the Forehead --

But as they learn to see --

Either the Darkness alters --

Or something in the sight

Adjusts itself to Midnight --

And Life steps almost straight.

-Emily Dickinson

I did once walk into a tree, hitting it with my forehead, in the woods on a pitch-black night. I'm not sure I'm one of the Bravest, though... 😉

Poem for a Thursday: Dickinson

#80

Our lives are Swiss,--
So still, so cool,
 Till, some odd afternoon,
The Alps neglect their curtains,
 And we look further on. 

Italy stands the other side,
 While, like a guard between,
The solemn Alps
The siren Alps,
 Forever intervene!

-Emily Dickinson

In picking an Emily Dickinson, I wanted to pick one that wasn't one of the better known ones, but was still particularly a favorite of mine. So here it is!

Jennifer has a stirring Robert Service poem, and not the one you know.