When I Swatted at a Fly Instead of Listening to It 

I have an embarrassing admission about my initial thoughts on Emily Dickinson.

I first studied her in junior high. I noticed her odd capitalization and strange punctuation. The willy nilly italics. I assumed she didn’t know better, and I kinda pitied her. (*Buries face in hands.*)

I found her work impenetrable. Almost morbid. I remember the illustration for “I Died for Beauty” in our literature book, tombstones slowly swallowed by moss. It all felt heavy for fifth period, the one just after lunch.

The way I came to these conclusions are both understandable (I hope) and embarrassing as well. 

At home we had a souvenir copy of the Declaration of Independence with its long s characters that looked like f’s and capital letters scattered wherever they pleased. I knew spelling used to vary, because it irritated me to see words spelled multiple ways when I read older documents. I knew conventions were loose once upon a time.

I even knew a bit about the dictionary wars, though we weren’t yet calling it that. Or I think I did. 

So my young mind stitched those facts together and decided Dickinson’s poems were simply another example of quirky spelling, playful caps. Bless her heart, intended in the most Southern of ways. 

I don’t need to tell you, Dear Reader, just how wrong I was. I repent. Utterly. 

Over the past few days I have spent serious time with Ms. Emily Dickinson in my quest to study poetry. On Friday morning I began what I am calling an in-depth look.

Word Raccoon believes that means reading all eighteen hundred of her poems, watching every lecture, and consuming every article ever written on Dickinson. I believe it means watching her craft. Studying her choices. Trying to see how she sees.

Along the way I found Adam Walker’s thoughtful videos on poetry, especially his discussions of Dickinson. He wears round glasses and has a boyish face. Word Raccoon insists the Harry Potter comparison is inevitable. However, we both enjoyed the videos immensely.

What did you do this weekend, Drema? I watched YouTube videos about Emily Dickinson.

Call it boring if you like. I call it mind expanding.

On Friday morning I spent half an hour reading and rereading “I Heard a Fly Buzz.” I listened for sound. I tracked the rhythm. The silence. 

I also wrote a poem. I watched the women at a nearby table and noticed how their gestures rose and fell. I wondered how long it takes for a movement to lose its starch. Reading Dickinson sharpened my noticing, I’d like to think. 

At one point a woman entered the cafe wearing earrings like a pair I own, a bold statement shirt, and a colorful crocheted clutch. One striking detail invites conversation. Two might. Three feels iffy. Or maybe it was simply the closed expression on her face. I will risk a hello, but only when it feels safe.

Back to the “Fly.” As many times as I read the poem, it did not fully yield. That is part of the work: you have to catch a poet’s rhythm. You have to listen the way they listen. Sound mattered deeply to her, and I am realizing how much I rely on image and idea, and how much more attention I want to give, should give, to sound.

This week I will continue. I will read carefully. I will consult supplementary materials without disappearing down rabbit holes. I do have other obligations. Work is work. Poetry is the good stuff.

I could share my notes on the poem here, but I suspect they contain both the obvious and what I have somehow missed. That is the humbling part of study, and I don’t think I’m that brave.

What I can say is this: I am enjoying it. Her language is fearless and exact. It sparks thought after thought. It makes me want to be braver and more precise. I am jealous of her abilities, but I am also grateful that her poems exist.

I hope to share specifics at some point. Then again, WR may have other ideas.

P.S. I have also begun rereading The Weight of Ink by Rachel Kadish. I was tired of screens and wandered the house until that book called to me. It is heavy in the hands, over five hundred pages. This time, remembering that the readers I admire most read slowly, I am moving through it with intention. It’s gorgeous, and it’s the perfect book for winter’s end. 

Or am I getting ahead of myself again?