September’s Baccalaureate
A combination is
Of Crickets—Crows—and Retrospects
And a dissembling BreezeThat hints without assuming—
An Innuendo sear
That makes the Heart put up its Fun
And turn Philosopher.
–Emily Dickinson
Yes, September is here.
And I have a very cute calendar page for this month, don’t I?
Dear March — Come in —
How glad I am —
I hoped for you before —Put down your Hat —
You must have walked —
How out of Breath you are —
Dear March, Come right up the stairs with me —
I have so much to tell —I got your Letter, and the Birds —
The Maples never knew that you were coming — till I called
I declare — how Red their Faces grew —
But March, forgive me — and
All those Hills you left for me to Hue —
There was no Purple suitable —
You took it all with you —Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door —
I will not be pursued —
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied —
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have comeThat Blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame —
(Emily Dickinson)
The painting is “A Study, In March” by John William Inchbold (1830–1888)
Today is Emily Dickinson’s birthday!
Emily lived her whole life (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) in Amherst, Massachusetts. She lived in this beautiful house, called by her family “The Homestead”.
She had a room of her own, and for Emily, this seems to have been enough. She also had her family and she did not lack for friends. She may have seemed “eccentric” to some, but plenty of people thought she was pretty cool. If she was mysterious back in her day, she is increasingly misunderstood now.
The Emily Dickinson Home, a National Historic Landmark, is located at 280 Main St. in Amherst, MA. Although I lived in the vicinity during my college years, I never visited the house. I saw it, but never went inside. The property, which is now owned by Amherst College, is a museum and is open to the public for guided tours March through December. It is definitely on my “to do/see” list.
So tonight let’s toast Emily and read a few of her poems. Here’s a good one for a winter afternoon:
There’s a certain Slant of light,Winter Afternoons –That oppresses, like the HeftOf Cathedral Tunes –Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –We can find no scar,But internal difference –Where the Meanings, are –None may teach it – Any –‘Tis the seal Despair –An imperial afflictionSent us of the Air –When it comes, the Landscape listens –Shadows – hold their breath –When it goes, ’tis like the DistanceOn the look of Death –
dual personalities 