Toward a poetry and poetics of the Americas (14)

Summer 1861

 

Master.                                                                                                                                                   

           If you saw a bullet

hit a Bird — and he told you

he was’nt shot — you might weep

at his courtesy, but you would

certainly doubt his word —

One drop more from the gash

that stains your Daisy’s

bosom — then would you believe?

Thomas’ faith in Anatomy, was

stronger than his faith in faith.

God made me — [Sir] Master —

I did’nt be — myself. I dont know how

it was done. He built the

heart in me — Bye and bye

it outgrew me — and like

the little mother — with the

big child — I got tired

holding him. I heard of a

thing called “Redemption” — which

rested men and women —

You remember I asked you

for it — you gave me something

else. I forgot the Redemption

[in the Redeemed — I did'nt

tell you for a long time, but

I knew you had altered me —

I] and was tired — no more — [so dear

did this stranger become, that

were it, or my breath — the

Alternative — I had tossed

the fellow away with a smile.]

I am older — tonight, Master —

but the love is the same —

so are the moon and the

crescent. If it had been

God's will that I might

breathe where you breathed —

and find the place — myself —

at night — if I (can) never forget

that I am not with you —

and that sorrow and frost

are nearer than I — if I wish

with a might I cannot

repress — that mine were the

Queen’s place — the love of

the Plantagenet is my only

apology — To come nearer than

presbyteries — and nearer than

the new Coat — that the Tailor

made — the prank of the Heart

at play on the Heart — in holy

Holiday — is forbidden me —

You make me say it over —

I fear you laugh — when I do

not see — [but] “Chillon” is not

funny. Have you the Heart in

your breast — Sir — is it set

like mine — a little to the left —

has it the misgiving — if it

wake in the night — perchance —

 itself to it — a timbrel is it —

itself to it a tune?

These things are [reverent] holy, Sir,

I touch them [reverently] hallowed, but

persons who pray — dare remark

[our] “Father”! You say I do

not tell you all — Daisy “confessed —

and denied not.”

Vesuvius dont talk — Etna — dont —

[They] one of them — said a syllable —

a thousand years ago, and

Pompeii heard it, and hid

forever — She could’nt look the

world in the face, afterward —

I suppose — Bashfull Pompeii!

“Tell you of the want” — you

know what a leech is, dont

you — and [remember that] Daisy’s arm is small —

and you have felt the Horizon

hav’nt you — and did the

sea — never come so close as

to make you dance?

I dont know what you can

do for it — thank you — Master —

but if I had the Beard on

my cheek — like you — and you — had Daisy’s

petals — and you cared so for

me — what would become of you?

Could you forget me in fight, or

flight — or the foreign land?

Could’nt Carlo, and you and I

walk in the meadows an hour —

and nobody care but the Bobolink —

and his — a silver scruple?

I used to think when I died —

I could see you — so I died

as fast as I could — but the

“Corporation” are going too — so [Eternity] Heaven

wont be sequestered — now [at all] —

Say I may wait for you —

say I need go with no stranger

to the to me — untried [country] fold —

I waited a long time — Master —

but I can wait more — wait

till my hazel hair is dappled —

and you carry the cane —

then I can look at my

watch — and if the Day is

too far declined — we can take

the chances [of] for Heaven —

What would you do with me

if I came “in white?”

Have you the little chest to

put the Alive — in?

I want to see you more — Sir —

than all I wish for in

this world — and the wish —

altered a little — will be my

only one — for the skies —

Could you come to New England —

[this summer — could] Would you come

to Amherst — Would you like

to come — Master?

[Would it do harm — yet we both

fear God —] Would Daisy disappoint

you — no — she would’nt — Sir —

it were comfort forever — just

to look in your face, while

you looked in mine — then I

could play in the woods till

Dark — till you take me

where Sundown cannot find

us — and the true keep

coming — till the town is full.

[Will you tell me if you will?]

I did’nt think to tell you, you                                                                                                                            did’nt come to me “in white” —                                                                                                                           nor ever told me why,

 

No Rose, yet felt myself

a’bloom,
No Bird — yet rode in Ether.

 

[NOTE. I published this earlier in a nonlineated prose rendering in America a Prophecy, coedited with George Quasha in the early 1970s. Well-enough known as one of three Dickinson letters addressed to an unidentified “Master,” this version, following closely her handwritten draft, emerges (for me at least) as a near-projective forerunner to what would become a dominant form of North American experimental composition a century after her own writing. The result anyway is based on the transcription in The Master Letters of Emily Dickinson, edited by R.W. Franklin and published by Amherst College Press in 1986. It will likely be the version used by me and Heriberto Yépez in our transnational anthology of North and South American poetry, now in preparation for University of California Press. That the full-blown sense of thwarted intimacy here is both surprising and overwhelming is also to be noted, as is the quirky and volatile language that connects the voice behind the letter to that of her better-known poems. (J.R.)]