I'm ceded–I've stopped being Theirs– Baptized, before, without the choice, My second Rank–too small the first–
#508
The name They dropped upon my face
With water, in the country church
Is finished using, now,
And They can put it with my Dolls,
My childhood, and the string of spools,
I've finished threading–too–
But this time, consciously, of Grace–
Unto supremest name–
Called to my full–The Crescent dropped–
Existence's whole Arc, filled up,
With one small Diadem.
Crowned–Crowning–on my Father's breast–
A half unconscious Queen–
But this time–Adequate–Erect,
With Will to choose, or to reject,
And I choose–just a Crown–
<1862>
Emily Dickinson's poetry doesn't have titles, was largely unpublished in her lifetime, and barely used punctuation. The dating is approximate. She was a wild, crazy, truly weird modernist in her day, and I have come to think of her as one of the original YA poets.
Here's my take:
I'm done with the name you dropped on my face yo, so you can stick it with my dolls, and hey, while you're at it, that baptism you didn't consult me about, either. And now that you mention it, I'm done with the rank you've given me, and I'm giving myself a new one. And I choose oh yeah a crown, so whatevs you had planned for me, drop it on your own face suckas…
Anyways. I memorized that poem at Amherst, when I was somehow studying Dickinson, whose house was on campus, while in my army pants and batik shirt phase. It meant something at the time, and it still does.
So long, National Poetry Month. In the immortal words of some guy I can't recall:
There's no money in poetry. But there's no poetry in money, either…
Check out the Emily Dickinson House for more kicks. here
<photo credits: Amherst College Archives & Special Collections, go Lord Jeffs!>
Love Dickinson. nice poem. GREAT translation! hahahah
I’ve never been good at deciphering poetry so thank you for your take on that poem. Makes it more enjoyable rather than frustrating. Thanks!
Why does she always look so scary? I know you like that about her, too.
Personally, I think she was the victim of one bad daguerrotype that is the only image every put out there of her…think about how much we hate having our picture taken, then imagine that one bad picture is going to be the way the world remembers you for more than a hundred years…
I am obsessed with that poem though, always have been…