The Scarlet Cupboard

This little poem was most definitely influenced by both Christina Rossetti and early Emily Dickinson.


There is a scarlet cupboard
     Inside a scarlet room,
Whose door is locked
And cracks are sealed:
     A silent, scarlet tomb.

It stands in scarlet penance
     While days and nights dance by
With lilting or
With ponderous step
     Till earthly time shall die.

Then shall its door be opened
     And all its content known;
The scarlet notes
And scarlet knots
     To judging eyes be shown.


© Leticia Austria 2007

The Two Faces of Possibility

Here are two different poetical views of the possibilities of writing poetry—one positive and hopeful, the other doubtful and filled with struggle. Dickinson, the genius, is positive. I, something less than genius, am the struggler.


        I dwell in Possibility—
        A fairer House than Prose—
        More numerous of Windows—
        Superior—for doors—

        Of Chambers as the Cedars—
        Impregnable of Eye—
        And for an Everlasting Roof—
        The Gambrels of the Sky—

        Of Visitors—the Fairest—
        For occupation—This—
        The spreading wide my narrow Hands—
        To gather Paradise—

        —Emily Dickinson


Awaiting Dawn

I dwell in Possibility. ~ Emily Dickinson

I find this shifting space
A questionable habitation.  Hope
Remains a nocturne scarcely audible;
I scratch the notes into my book of songs
With feathers sharpened by a bitter blade.
What prayers are wrought inside this cage of night
Become a liquor brewed from sorrow's rain,
Libation for the hosts that crowd my bed,
That carol with the confidence of those
Who've passed the night of possibility
And woke to tell the tale.  Theirs is the song
My pen stays poised above the page to write.
However many feathers used and tossed,
I know the dawn will never come till this
Night's song is done.


Aside from the principal reference to Dickinson's poem above, you'll notice other Dickinsonian references: "hope" and "feathers" from her well-known "Hope" is the thing with feathers; "hosts" from this poem; and "a liquor brewed" obviously from this famous poem. If you know these works, you'll know why I referenced them.


"Awaiting Dawn" © Leticia Austria

Prompted by Emily

     A few years ago, I received a newsletter from a poetry site in which were listed several exercises a poet could try when experiencing writer's block. One of the exercises was this: take a line from a favorite poem as the opening line of your own, then use one word (or more) from that line in every succeeding line. You can use the same word, or choose different words.

     Sounded pretty simple to me. So I decided to use a line from Emily Dickinson that I love a lot. The result is this little lyric, written in heroic couplets.

Prompted by Emily

"My wars are laid away in Books—," she said.
And in the books I've written or have read,

the wars that I have witnessed or have fought
are laid with ghosts I've fled and ghosts I've sought.

I laid away my books before the wars
were fairly won, before my battle scars

were barely formed, and put them far away
from less destructive wars of Everyday.

The wars I've laid away are numberless,
but ghosts are never really laid to rest.


© Leticia Austria 2010
First published in Decanto

From My Big Orange Book: Happy Birthday, Emily Dickinson!

 

Going to Him! Happy letter!

Tell Him -

Tell Him the page I didn't write -

Tell Him - I only said the Syntax -

And left the Verb and the pronoun - out -

Tell Him Just how the fingers burned -

Then - how they waded - slow - slow -

And then you wished you had eyes in your pages -

So you could see what moved them so -

 

Tell Him - it wasn't a Practised Writer -

You guessed - from the way the sentence toiled -

You could hear the Boddice tug, behind you -

As if it held but the might of a child -

You almost pitied it - you - it worked so -

Tell Him - No - you may quibble there -

For it would split His Heart, to know it -

And then you and I, were silenter.

 

Tell Him - Night finished - before we finished -

And the Old Clock kept neighing "Day"!

And you - got sleepy -

And begged to be ended -

What would it hinder so - to say?

Tell Him - just how she sealed you - Cautious!

But - if He ask where you are hid

Until tomorrow - Happy letter!

Gesture Coquette - and shake your Head!

 

Thank you, Emily, for expressing in your singular and astonishing way the secrets of the human heart.





From My Big Orange Book

     Some years ago—actually, it must have been over a decade ago—I purchased from my neighborhood Barnes and Noble in Houston a huge blank book. Sizing in at 8.5 x 11 x 1 and weighing in at about three or four pounds, it is patently impractical as a schlep-around journal. Open, it would take up half the table in a cafe.

     Why did I buy it? It was on sale for five bucks. Reason enough for me. And as I heaved its burnt orange cloth bound poundage onto the checkout counter, I thought, "I'll find a use for it someday."

     It sat on my shelf for several weeks, then it came to me: I would copy in it any poem or part of a poem, any quotation or prose passage or song lyric, that spoke to me in a meaningful and lasting way. I had already copied many of these things into my journals over the years, but now I would have a single volume in which to gather, peruse, and reference them. Huzzah!

     I hasten to say that I did not own a computer at that time—but even if I did, I probably would still have copied the texts by hand into the book. That's just the kind of person I am. Here's what I wrote on the flyleaf:

Herein I have copied down poems, passages, phrases, etc. that have touched me or merely caught my fancy. Much handier to have them all in one single volume, don't you think? I have to say, however, that I probably will not copy one of my favorite poems of all time—"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"—because it's just too bloody long!

 

P. S.  I knew I'd find a use for this damn book.

     So I decided that, from time to time, I would post an entry or two from my Big Orange Book, beginning today. The entries on the first page are two short poems by Emily Dickinson. Are we surprised?

Ample make this bed -
Make this Bed with Awe -
In it wait till Judgment break
Excellent and Fair.

Be it's Mattress straight -
Be it's Pillow round -
Let no Sunrise' yellow noise
Interrupt this Ground -

* * *

Heart! We will forget him!
You and I - tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave -
I will forget the light!

When you have done, pray tell me
That I may straight begin!
Haste! Lest while you're lagging
I remember him!


     I also wrote, on the page facing these poems:

There seems to be quite a lot of Emily Dickinson in this volume. Not surprising - she is my favorite. I just want to make clear that all errors in spelling & punctuation are hers - taken from the R. W. Franklin edition. I, for some silly reason, didn't want you to think I had bad spelling & patchy knowledge of punctuation!

     Obviously, I mean for the Big Orange Book to be left, along with my journals and poetry, to my family after my passing. I do plan for the future, you know.