I bring an unaccustomed wine
To lips long parching, next to mine,
And summon them to drink.
Crackling with fever, they essay;
I turn my brimming eyes away,
And come next hour to look.
The hands still hug the tardy glass;
The lips I would have cooled, alas!
Are so superfluous cold,
I would as soon attempt to warm
The bosoms where the frost has lain
Ages beneath the mould.
Some other thirsty there may be
To whom this would have pointed me
Had it remained to speak.
And so I always bear the cup
If, haply, mine may be the drop
Some pilgrim thirst to slake,
If, haply, any say to me,
"Unto the little, unto me,"
When I at last awake.
33 comments:
ricpic brought the Dickinson somewhere recently and it inspired me to post my favorite.
Thanks for the relief from controversy!
Unaccustomed... it was reposed by custom agents.
I would like to say that I enjoy poetry. But. Usually, I just don't get it. The whole thing has to be painfully explained to me which takes everyone's enjoyment out of the equation. It is like some convoluted riddle that doesn't make sense (to me) and that I just don't really want to take the time to figure out. I guess, I'm just too literal.
Really. I'm not trying to be sarcastic. What the Hell is she trying to say?
Since we're posting poetry recently, let me post my favorite:
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
~John Donne
Published after his death in the early 17th century. Referred to as a metaphysical poet. In my odd view of things, he may have fortold of "the enlightenment" that came after and writers such as John Locke, who had such an influence on our founding as a nation.
I was introduced to John Donne by my tiny private high school's teacher of English literature in my senior year. He was a barely known but published poet by the name of William Horace Whittemore. One other commenter here, Poppa India, also knew "Uncle Whit" and can vouch for both his sincerity in teaching, his quirks, and his dedicated manner of dealing with teenagers.
He was an influence no doubt, 54 years later and I still can see his face in my mind's eye.
@DBQ: Here's my take:
I took a cooling drink to someone I cared for, who was fevered and very ill. When I came back an hour later to check on him, he was dead. But he would have wanted me to offer the wine to someone else who needs it, so I carry it with me. I hope that when I die and meet Jesus, he will tell me "inasmuch as you have done it to the least of these, you have done it to Me."
Not clear what the "wine" is (sympathy? love?), nor why it is "unaccustomed."
@ Mumpsimus
Thank you for your explanation.
All I got, from my reading, was that she was too late for something and something bad happened to someone and it seems that they died (or maybe not). And she hopes that she won't be too late the next time. ??? /shrug.
A lot of my difficulty might be the antiquated language.
I have considered this poem an intriguing puzzle. I like to believe it is more about unfulfilled passion or love.
Thanks for sharing that, Aridog! I enjoyed it and the story of how it came to be your favorite.
When I was in 3rd grade my teacher felt that I had some talent at writing poems. She encouraged me by giving me the assignment of writing a poem a day while on vacation instead of regular class work. I loved that assignment.
We remember the good ones.
In addition to Mumpsimus' understanding, I get the sense that Dickinson might be referring the the transcendence of death.She is one of the transcendentalist writers similar to Henry David Thoreau.
It is this characteristic that prompted my mind to recall John Donne, and W. H Whittemore, whom I knew.
Remember however, that I am a functional dolt when it comes to literature and poetry. Maybe too much mother nature in the college daze.
Darcy .... there is so much more to say about "Uncle Whit" ... enough that I just joined the JabberTale site in order to try and upgrade his "biography" which is accurate but says too little about him. He deserves better. His favorite writer was Thoreau, and that had a bit to do with his living in a cabin in the woods they refer to in his scant biography. The family who enabled his doing so deserve at least mention for their grace and foresight that he was a superb teacher...of teenagers...and that's a miracle itself.
A miracle indeed, Aridog.
This is one of my favorites, primarily because I came across it at a key moment of self-doubt, looking back at decisions and crossroads, wondering if it was all a waste, as my decisions were so counter to what everyone else was doing, getting by and moving forward in vaguely satisfying careers.
Again and again, in my life, I kept making things harder for myself, going to the uncomfortable places, neglecting the right way of networking and speaking my thoughts, doing what seemed to me a way of answering the questions no one else around me was answering.
It isn't comforting. But it's descriptive to me and a reminder, one that I need regularly no matter my context.
Ascetic
That in the end
I may find
Something not sold for a penny
In the slums of Mind
That I may break
With these hands
The bread of Wisdom that grows
In the other lands.
For this, for this
Do I wear
The rags of hunger and climb
The unending stair.
Patrick Kavanaugh
Maybe the wine Emily is bringing to others is her own poetry. That's my guess...but who knows?
I don't think Dickinson was intentionally cryptic. But given that she was supposed to be a straightened lady when in fact she was quite passionate (and deeply frustrated) she often tiptoed right up to the edge of spilling the beans but then put the lid back on. Ergo the revealing-concealing tactic.
Straight-laced is better than straightened.
If I may muse...
One wonders what Dickinson would produce in our more welcoming and enlightened age.
The cryptic that ricpic points to would be seen as a result of micro-aggressions. We live in an age of accustomed whines, salted for parched souls. Which isn't to dispute the need to confront injustice. But so often it's whines about ego that are given free reign in their complaint, celebrated in the inartistic vomiting.
It was the very constraint that led to creative expression. That's true across thought and art forms.
If I may muse...
lol. You know Paddy, you are welcome to post anytime, if you want to.
The doors are sesame open... or something. Strike a pose ;)
Come and re-pose... i got to get back to work.
The clustered spires of Frederick stand,
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland...
Had to read that one when I moved to Fredneck, but I don't remember most of of. Well, sure, the "Shoot, if you must this gray old head", but how could one forget that?
Unionists - feh! And that nasty candy sold with her name on it. Patooie!
March on, indeed!
LOL, Sixty.
I loved this discussion. Thanks, everyone!
Yeah, Darce, I tried to think of some love poem or mushy stuff, but mainly came up with lines from old rock and roll songs and such. So I went with J. G. Whittier, eschewing my usual Ogden Nash stand bys or Burma Shave signs.
Guy who taught me carpentry was born in 1911 and could recite entire Robert W. Service poems such as "The Cremation of Sam McGee" - I liked that one, because I hate cold weather too.
Other than having to memorize parts that I performed in plays, I can't recall ever having to memorize a poem in school, unlike the old timers I knew - those guys got an education, by gum!
Now is the time where I am required to yell at the kids on my lawn. Excuse me.
.
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If only Casey could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile lit Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style," said Casey. “Strike one!” the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!”
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.
.
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If only Casey could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile lit Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style," said Casey. “Strike one!” the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!”
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.
What I like most about poetry, is the way it invites. Here it served as the knock that opened the door to: An appreciated question from DBQ (with several appreciated answers), a remembered teacher, a bump to another poem, life story or lines from memory, along with other musings and poses.
In 6th grade we were given the weekly option of turning in a one page book report or an original poem with no line requirement, and I would most often choose to write a poem. I smile today at the con perpetrated by the teacher, as many who wouldn't have thought twice about writing poetry, did so because it was shorter and easier than the book report.
On the subject of unending stairs, this one, by Langston Hughes, is one of my favorites.
Mother to Son
Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
Langston Hughes
That “unaccustomed wine” is the blissfulness that faith brings.
I’ve often thought that had Dickinson been born a Catholic, she might have gone the way of a St. Therese of Lisieux, or a Julian of Norwich.
That “unaccustomed wine” is the blissfulness that faith brings.
From that vintage, would not an experience of compassion or a touch of love also serve?
Yep, it could. But I think that use of “pilgrim” signifies something other than human love:
And so I always bear the cup
If, haply, mine may be the drop
Some pilgrim thirst to slake,
little dark bear with kind eyes
when it comes time
to use the knife
I won't flinch
and I won't blame you,
as I ride along the subway alone
as I doze with drink,
I dream of the night
we met first sight,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won't blame you,
instead I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me everything you had
and how I offered you what was left of me,
and I will remember your small cage
the feel of the light in the window
your straw
your panda poo
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.
little dark bear with kind panda eyes
you have no knife.
the knife is mine
and I won't use it
yet.
(From the Panda Sex with Charles Bukowski series)
And that, Pilgrim, constitutes the bringing of an unaccustomed Bukowski!
I think that use of “pilgrim” signifies something other than human love...
@ Lydia. Prior to your mention, I hadn't noticed the word "pilgrim" in the poem, and I appreciate seeing it. It does promote an awareness of spiritual journey.
As wine is imbued with spirit, I have difficulty knowing where human love and divine love cross over and separate. I wonder if something as simple and complex as the gift of understanding and acceptance could be part of the beverage offered to parched lips? In my case, today, it's as simple and complex as finding the right "wine" to offer to my aged and difficult mother for Mother's Day.
I liked hearing all the perspectives presented here. Considering them reminds me of walking around a sculpture to observe it from different points of view.
I think the unaccustomed wine is Emily's kiss.
She was such a little fuss bucket. Sitting up there in her room isolated waiting for love but not knowing how to handle it when presented with opportunity.
In real life there was a guy she adored, from afar, from her upper window. What a pain in the ass she must have been for him whenever he dropped by.
I think she is talking about her own messed up inner tumultuous love life, that is, non-existent and bothersome to a particular occasional visitor.
That's my reading, and I'm unwilling to try any harder than that at penetrating her meaning.
Thanks for opening up and giving back so much through your blog. Breast lift delhi
^^^^^^
Clean up on the titty aisle STAT!
Trooper York is the man to call, of course :-))
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