This past weekend I learned that the pillar of grace known as Dr. Dorothy Martyn died after suffering a stroke at her home in North Carolina. An accomplished child psychologist (of the Freudian persuasion), Dorothy possessed a rare gift for helping the sufferers of the world, and I include myself in that number. We talk […]
A Poem for Good Friday - Emily Dickinson (#622)
To know just how He suffered — would be dear —
To know if any Human eyes were near
To whom He could entrust His wavering gaze —
Until it settle broad — on Paradise —
To know if He was patient — part content —
Was Dying as He thought — or different —
Was it a pleasant Day to die —
And did the Sunshine face his way —
What was His furthest mind — Of Home — or God —
Or what the Distant say —
At news that He ceased Human Nature
Such a Day —
And Wishes — Had He Any —
Just His Sigh — Accented —
Had been legible — to Me —
And was He Confident until
Ill fluttered out — in Everlasting Well —
And if He spoke — What name was Best —
What last
What One broke off with
At the Drowsiest —
Was He afraid — or tranquil —
Might He know
How Conscious Consciousness — could grow —
Till Love that was — and Love too best to be —
Meet — and the Junction be Eternity
The Province of the Saved - Emily Dickinson
The Province of the Saved
Should be the Art – To Save –
Through Skill obtained in Themselves –
The Science of the Grave
No Man can understand
But He that hath endured
The Dissolution – in Himself –
That Man – be qualified
To qualify Despair
To Those who failing new –
Mistake Defeat for Death – Each time –
Till acclimated – to –
Emily Dickinson - Poem 508
A Pit–but Heaven over it–
And Heaven beside, and Heaven abroad;
And yet a Pit–
With Heaven over it.
To stir would be to slip–
To look would be to drop–
To dream–to sap the Prop
That holds my chances up.
Ah! Pit! With Heaven over it!
The depth is all my thought–
I dare not ask my feet–
‘Twould start us where we sit
So straight you’d scarce suspect
It was a Pit–with fathoms under it
It’s Circuit just the same
Whose Doom to whom
‘Twould start them–
We–could tremble–
But since we got a Bomb–
And held it in our Bosom–
Nay–Hold it–it is calm–
Emily Dickinson's Poem #1309 (on the Paradox of Advent)
The Infinite a sudden Guest
Has been assumed to be —
But how can that stupendous come
Which never went away?
Ash Wednesday With Emily Dickinson
Poem 260
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Dont tell! they’d advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
Emily Dickinson - Poem 341
After great pain, a formal feeling comes —
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs —
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round —
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought —
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone —
This is the Hour of Lead —
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow —
First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —
Parents Just Don't Understand, or The Perennial Advice Crisis Strikes Again
A mildly interesting article in last week’s Wall Street Journal entitled “Want My Advice? Um, Not Really?” which touches tangentially on one of our favorite topics: the danger of telling people what to do. Or in theological terms, the Law being powerless to produce what it commands, or worse, producing the opposite, all the way […]
Emily Dickinson - Poem 1212
A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.
Emily Dickinson - Poem 1487
The Savior must have been
A docile Gentleman—
To come so far so cold a Day
For little Fellowmen—
The Road to Bethlehem
Since He and I were Boys
Was leveled, but for that ‘twould be
A rugged Billion Miles—
Emily Dickinson - Poem 816
A Death blow is a Life blow to Some
Who till they died, did not alive become–
Who had they lived, had died but when
They died, Vitality begun.
Emily Dickinson - Last Four Stanzas of Poem 561
The Grieved – are many – I am told –
There is the various Cause –
Death – is but one – and comes but once –
And only nails the eyes –
There’s Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –
A sort they call “Despair” –
There’s Banishment from native Eyes –
In Sight of Native Air –
And though I may not guess the kind –
Correctly – yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary –
To note the fashions – of the Cross –
And how they’re mostly worn –
Still fascinated to presume
That Some – are like My Own –
