An Emily Dickinson poem I heard referenced in a podcast. I have no revolutionary ideas about poetry, but I love the way she writes. It vibes well with the way my thoughts form sometimes, acknowledging things in short bursts as they happen. This poem’s about being a little bit crazy, I guess. Anyway.

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, (340)
By Emily Dickinson

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum -
Kept beating - beating - till I thought
My mind was going numb -

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space - began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here -

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down -
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished known - then -

I wonder what happens - then -.

If you’re into poetry at all, you’ve no doubt heard about Dickinson’s weird life. (Here’s the Wikipedia article if you haven’t, and to fact check whatever I’m about to say).

While she’s one of the best known poets today with many thousands of works, only 10 were published during her life. She was known as the town eccentric and often wore only white. I imagine a wistful ghost wandering the streets– until she started living in her bedroom almost entirely. Also she was gay? (<- I didn’t read that article so idk if it’s homophobic. It’s proof though)

Being fully self-absorbed, I was imagining the other day my own feelings of having something to say, but not sharing it with people in real life. Instead, I think about what I can write here. I wonder if she would have liked a basically anonymous platform to publish her stuff, instead of the town newspaper, where she would probably be recognized. There’s something strange about putting things online where anyone can see them, but probably nobody will. I wonder if she would have had a Tumblr account.

It’s so strange to me that she could have been totally unknown to the world, and so famous now! She’s actually the author of the first poem I remember learning (beyond like, baa baa black sheep). I wrote a song to it in sixth grade! It still gets stuck in my head!

Fuck it, I’ll put it in this post, too:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers
By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Beautiful. It reminds me to look for the little flutter in my chest.

And one last thought on this topic– there’s a line in that first poem that reminded me of a few passages in PatC. Dickinson’s line, “As all the Heavens were a Bell,” –

“And the bell under my ribs rang a true note, a flourish as of blended horns, clarion, sweet, and making a long dim sense I will try at length to explain. Flung is too harsh a word for the rush of the world. Blow is more like it, but blown by a generous, un-ending breath.”

From the chapter The Waters of Separation

Dillard talks about that Bell a few times throughout the book. My (future) father in law wrote an inscription to me in the front of the book, and pointed to this line:

“I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck.”

From the chapter Seeing

I have my own moment like that, but it’s a story for another time.

–Lottie

P.S. I have a bit of a migraine today, so sorry about any typos or weird sentences.