| Title | : | Final Harvest: Emily Dickinsons Poems |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | - |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 331 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1961 |
Though generally overlooked during her lifetime, Emily Dickinson's poetry has achieved acclaim due to her experiments in prosody, her tragic vision and the range of her emotional and intellectual explorations.
Final Harvest: Emily Dickinsons Poems Reviews
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I grew up with Emily Dickinson. I mean her house was nearby in Amherst; I passed it all the time and it was spooky. You had this image of her, right? This is the old vision: a batty old spinster, shut up in her attic, writing her loopy little ditties. She was portrayed as a sort of idiot savant: "Look at what this naif came up with all by herself!" I knew that story when I was very young. I liked her poems when I was very young, too; they work for young people. They're short and rhythmic and they make you feel funny. Anyway, I would pass her place and distinctly feel her white-nightgowned ghost looking out a high window at me.
I cannot live with You –
It would be Life –
And Life is over there –
Behind the Shelf
None of this was accurate, of course, except probably for the ghost part; Dickinson was nothing like an idiot savant. A recluse, sure, but not a primitive. She worked very hard on her poetry; she read other poets; she marketed herself cleverly. She knew exactly what she was doing. Those poems read like someone dropped them on the floor and they shattered, but every syllable, every jarring dash, was obsessed over. They're great because she made them great.I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!
I reread her all the time nowadays. She's on my (ludicrously short) stack of favorite poetry, and when you have a minute to kill Whitman will not work but Dickinson will. It's funny, as many times as I've read her, her poems still shock. They're so immediate, you know? Vital. There is artifice but it's completely buried; what shows is a furious insistence on herself. It's playful - of course it's playful, with that singsong tetrameter - my friend Meghan almost ruined everything by pointing out that most of Dickinson's poems can be sung to the tune of the Gilligan's Island theme - playful and seductive. But there's this feeling under it, a sort of drawing aside of the sheer of the world, right? There's danger.We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies—
The first time I got high I had this sudden, awing, vertiginous feeling: my gosh, there's been a whole world under this one this whole time, and no one told me until now. There's a whole reality, I thought, more savage and magical than what I've been gliding over. We'd ducked behind some hedges in Amherst to smoke my first bowl. Looking up and coughing that smoke into the night, I realized - I know this sounds made up but it's true - that we were on Emily Dickinson's front lawn. She was with me then too, ghostly in white, nodding at me not from the attic but from her study: yes. Savage, and magical. -
I always try to shatter an unbookish and usually very compulsive and unavoidable break on my part with a piece of poetry. This happens sometimes coincidently and sometimes premeditated. This time it was purely coincidental.
This book I got in my hand today and I read it.
She is As Fresh as Always!
She rejuvenates me whenever I am in low spirits.
I will only share these lines,
Have you got a Brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And Shadows tremble so
And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there,
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there
Hoping to get back to my half-read, unfinished books this week onwards!
These white scrappy pages must be reorganized along with my mind which had gone astray for some time in too many worldly affairs.
I seem to have overlooked many important things on GR! -
Some of the most powerful, hair-raising, dynamic, brutal, vivid, imaginitive, ghostly, intense, sheerly dialectical poetry ever.
She has a knack, not at all uncommon among great writers, to seem accessible and surface-level beautiful while being almost unbearably challenging and provocative once engaged with. A genius, no questions asked.
If I had to bring, like, 5 books with me to the moon I think she would have to accompany whatever else I brought. She stands up to re-reading (really the most durable and near-foolproof standard) like few others.
Here's one of my favorites:
202
This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond-
Invisible as Music-
But positive, as Sound-
It beckons, and it baffles-
Philosophy- don't know-
And through a Riddle, at the last-
Sagacity, must go-
To guess it, puzzles scholars-
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown-
Faith slips- and laughs, and rallies-
Blushes, if any see-
Plucks at a twig of Evidence-
And asks a Vane, the way-
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit-
Strong Hallelujahs roll-
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul-
I've seriously considered getting the first line tattooed somewhere on myself for a long time.
Here's another that just chills you to the bone:
66
There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons-
That oppresses, like the Heft
of Cathedral Tunes-
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us-
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are-
None may teach it- Any-
'Tis the Seal Despair-
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air-
When it comes, the Landscape listens-
Shadows- hold their breath-
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death-
I had a teacher in undergrad, a popular and unnpretentious type who wrote poetry of his own and though he was ultra-smart it never seemed to go very far in terms of publication. He cried more than a few times when he read her poetry in class and claimed to be hopelessly in love with her. #66 was a particular favorite of his.
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I own the collection compiled by the eminent Dickinson scholar, Thomas H. Johnson. It is titled Final Harvest: Emily Dickinson’s Poems. Of the 1,775 poems she wrote, Johnson chose a mere 576 to include in this volume. Emily Dickinson’s poetry is a treasure once you become accustomed to her style.
I wonder how many people neglect to read Dickinson, thinking that she is or her writings are nothing but niceties, preciousness, and womanly stuff. Sure she wrote about nature, like her peers of her time. But Dickinson had an edge; she was an existentialist in an era of transcendentalism. She tackles concepts of humanity’s injustices and broken relationships, be them with men, the church, and/or with God. In a true sense, she was a feminist before its time.
What I sense most in her poetry is a yearning to find her place in society. It’s a yearning that is so strong it nearly explodes from her short, syncopated phrases and lines. In the poems, "Myself was formed a Carpenter;" "A loss something ever felt I;" and "Bind me I can still sing," I see Dickinson creating a matriarchal voice that fellow women can hear, understand and appreciate. If writers look back to great figurehead that represents the wellspring of lyrical genealogy, Dickinson would be that figurehead of women writers.
In the poem "A loss something ever felt I," Dickinson seems to realize that she has no place of origin and that, possibly, because she is a woman and a poet, she is cast out from society. This is why she explained herself "As one bemoaning a Dominion / Itself the only Prince cast out;" and admitted "I find myself still softly searching/For my Delinquent Palaces."
In her search for her own place of acceptance, Dickinson writes: "And a Suspicion, like a Finger/Touches my Forehead now and then/That I am looking oppositely/For the site of the Kingdom of Heaven." She seems to suggest that her conscience is pricking her, telling her that she is going contrary to society (whether that be masculine or religious establishments) and its set role for women.
In her short poem "Bind me I can still sing," I sense a strong will to not only find a physical place, but to keep hold of her inner-place (her heart and soul). The strength of her inner will is rivaled only by the strength of the poem’s alliteration and it’s content.
Bind me – I still can sing
Banish – my mandolin
Strikes true within –
Slay – and my
Soul shall rise
Chanting to Paradise –
Still thine.
Her message seems to be pointed towards the male society and their tactics of oppression. Consider the violent images present in the words bind, banish, strike, and slay. The power of her message lies in the meaning that whoever or whatever tries to bind her, banish her, strike her, or even slay her, she will have the final victory because she owns her voice and heart–that can never be taken from her. The caged bird has often been an image representing women in an oppressive situation. This poem seems to have that image in mind. But moreover, Dickinson focuses on freedom despite being compelled to be silent, hurt, or slain. Consider the lines "I still can sing," "my mandolin strikes true within," and "my soul shall rise."
In the poem "Myself was formed a Carpenter, I see Dickinson as the Carpenter who is building that place for women. When the builder comes, she writes that she toils "against the man." She states at the beginning of stanza three that "My tools took Human Faces." If toiling "against the man" represents fighting against male domination, her tools may represent women– the tools are her words; and they are toiling to build a place for themselves in society.
"We Temples Build" she writes in the last line reveals her purpose. Dickinson suggests that she, along with her tools, are building their own place, a safe place, a sacred place, all from the confinements of male society. Words such as Temples and Carpenter and Builder give the poem a sacred, even religious element. If the Builder is God, the Carpenter Christ, and Temples the Houses of God, then maybe Dickinson is trying to create a Mother-land. And she, because of this intent, being the Carpenter, establishes her as the Matriarch of feminine poetry.
Some personal favorites from Emily Dickinson's collection:
Page 3: The Gentian weaves her fringes....
Page 12: Bring me the sunset in a cup....
Page 12: To fight aloud is very brave...
Page 13: These are the days when birds come back....
Page 20: "Faith" is a fine invention.....
Page 26: Savior I’ve no one else to tell.....
Page 34: "Hope" is the thing with feathers....
Page 297: The bible is an antique volume....
Page 307: A word made flesh is seldom....
Page 314: My life closed twice before its close.....
Page 427: Tell the truth but tell it slant/The truth must dazzle gradually/or every man be blind -
The imagery that Emily brings is really something and quite beautiful, but I am not a fan of the cadence of her poetry. The lyrical timber of them feels off to me and I am not a fan of how they read.
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mrs emily d does not disappoint!
i have never read dickinson and i’ve seen enough snippets to decide to pick up an anthology of her work at the library. i think what makes me so curious about her is the mystery around the author being the og hermit.
i really enjoyed her poems that focused on death as they felt like the most profound to me. i think there is a lot that can be unpacked with each of the poems which makes it great for discussion and discerning your own truths.
i docked her a star because there were some poems that i just didn’t understand because i think i needed more context about the period to understand the writing. so i didn’t feel totally connected, that’s all! -
It took me two months to make it through this 320pg book: a collection of 575 of Dickinson's best poems. Only after I read a biography of her (Richard Sewall's) and only after I was a third of the way through this book did my brain finally "get" how to read her and receive her.
When I read a book I feel like I spend time with the author. For me, spending time with Emily is awe-inspiring, scary, gut-wrenching, humbling, breathtaking, and fascinating. There's something very other-worldly about her and her writing, as if the words themselves have some sort of sacred presence. -
Controversial opinion time. I really really dislike Dickinson's poetry. Hence why this collection of 576 short poems took me about a year to read (the same time it took to read The Cantos which are far longer and are basically incomprehensible to me). Reading Dickinson feels like reading nursery rhymes about being sad that you're going to die. I relate to the latter part, but like, once I'm 100 poems in, I'm gonna start getting bored of this idea, especially in the way it's repeating themes rather than layering them or viewing them in varying ways. I actually originally gave up about 50/321 pages in but decided to finish by reading two pages a day every morning. Do I regret it? No, not at all, because I don't think she's a bad poet, and she's certainly a very important/influential poet. She's just unfortunately the exact thing I don't like when it comes to poetry. Don't take my word for it though, because I'm clearly out of the norm here - try a few out yourself and then maybe get this collection if you like it.
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122 (numbers differ with editors and editions) is one of my favorites.
Eta: While I was rereading Final Harvest, the book, dating from my college days, fell apart at the spine. S. noted my distress, and today, I received an incredibly wonderful gift of a first edition The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson (my attempts to add a bit of html coding here are not meeting with success). In this edition, Poem 122 is Poem 341. The inscription from S., with reference to a certain poem, I shall not reveal. -
I admit upfront that I don't consider myself much of a poetry person, but I also feel like I gave this far more consideration than anyone else would have.
If anything turned me off the most it was the extensive use of near-rhymes. I have no problems with non-rhyming poetry, but if you can't just approximate rhymes and expect it to work. At least for me, following an ABAB with an ABAJ clangs like a rusted church bell. It's one thing if you aren't rhyming from the beginning, but when you set an expectation, a flow, how can you expect the reader to slide over the off note? Maybe I'm wrong, or somehow different from most readers. Maybe other people don't hear what they read? Her conspicuous non-rhymes often look similar even when I can't find an accent in the world that would balance the sounds, so that would explain a lot.
There was also the problem of the bizarre philosophy and ideas embedded in individual poems, but I would be inclined to give that a pass even if I were willing to go back and find the ones that I found odd. Which I'm not.
I found her at her best when she was describing something particular, especially birds and the like. When she has a special focus, like a Jay, she reveals herself to be witty, whimsical, and deep. When she is gives herself nothing to focus on she's scattered, shallow, and nearly incoherent. But that's just my opinion and, while I read this slowly and carefully, I still just don't like poetry. -
I'm not a huge fan of poetry but I decide to give this book an opportunity. I read every single poem. Dickinson talks about Nature, God, and Death and yes, she is morbid but she also has poems about life and love. They are worth exploring.
Some were boring, some I paid little attention to but some I read and re-read searching for meaning, repeating it as if it were a song. Some poems ended up inspiring me and I learned tons of new words. Overall it was an experience worth experiencing and a risk work taking. I'm still not fond of poetry but I can say I enjoy art at its best. -
Qué poemas más hermosos, la elegancia, la rima, la profundidad. Este libro es para el alma. La mejor forma de terminar un año y empezar otro. Totalmente recomendado. Dickinson era una genio tierna.
"I have no Life but this -
To lead it here -
Nor any Death - but lest
Dispelled from there -
Nor tie to Earths to come -
Nor action new -
Except through this extent -
The Realm of you -" -
So good it hurts.
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Always a great author to choose for poems that touch your soul.
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review to come
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I'm going to assume that if you're reading this you've gotten past, or better, never encountered the
"mousy little recluse whose poems can be sung to the Yellow Rose of Texas" approach to Dickinson (which, sadly was common when I was in high school.) The fact is that Dickinson is existentially searching, often bleak as hell, tormented in her grappling with God, and one of the most innovative formal thinkers in the American (or far as I know any other) tradition. Not to mention, as Adrienne Rich made clear, foremother of feminist poets she probably would have had trouble imagining, but would have seen clearly.
Final Harvest is the best book of Dickinson's poetry, case closed. Editor Thomas Johnson deserves literary sainthood for getting the punctuation and rhythms right and the selection--roughly a third of the Complete Dickinson--is flawless. Nothing on my list of poems that should be there wasn't.
Reading the 500 poems in sequence over a couple of weeks, two things struck me. First, the poems of 1862 are just flat amazing. You can see it coming in 1861 and the energy carries for a couple of years after, but, damn 1862 is incredible.
Second, the energy tails off. There are a few strong poems interspersed over the last couple hundred, but if what you want is Dickinson as peak, you're reasonably safe stopping around 400 with 554 and 559 mixed in. -
This is the first time I've read this straight through, instead of picking around. Many of the poems were new to me. I was a little surprised at how many were about death. I suppose I should have known. I'm hesitant to say much more, because I'm still thinking about it all. I did like it very much, though.
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No one like her, no voice like hers, no wonder we're still trying to parse her out, catch up to her, catch the hem of her garment.
Eternity's disclosure
To favorites - a few -
Of the Colossal substance
Of Immorality
Thank you, Emily. -
Still don't love E.D. but I can appreciate why others do. Value from me is her views of the CT River Valley and generally, the natural landscape of New England in the 1800s. I just wish she got out more :)
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A huge collection of chronologically organized poems by Emily Dickinson. What is great about that is you see her artistic progession over the years. Not all poems are great, but the few that are are extraordinary. Dickinson is perhaps the best woman poet in American history.
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It’s amazing how poetry written so long ago, crafted by a woman who lead such a different life than I, could resonate so strongly with me, but I highlighted or underlined so many poems in this book, and I think I’ll crack it open again to search for gems I missed on the first go-round.
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This book is not the complete poems written by Emily Dickinson but feature some of her more well-known poems. It's a good starting place if you're just getting into Dickinson's work.
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Emily's poetry is incandescent.
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DNF
It was too confusing with the ornate writing style. I just gave up!
-SL
