Day 5

 

Here’s Day 5 of your Emily Dickinson practice:

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Poem 1

“My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun –” (Fr764, J754)

My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun –
In Corners – till a Day
The Owner passed – identified –
And carried Me away –

And now We roam in Sovereign Woods –
And now We hunt the Doe –
And every time I speak for Him –
The Mountains straight reply –

And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow –
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through –

And when at Night – Our good Day done –
I guard My Master’s Head –
’Tis better than the Eider-Duck’s
Deep Pillow – to have shared –

To foe of His – I’m deadly foe –
None stir the second time –
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye –
Or an emphatic Thumb –

Though I than He – may longer live
He longer must – than I –
For I have but the power to kill,
Without – the power to die –

Note: One of Dickinson’s most enigmatic. Is the speaker the poet herself, empowered yet dependent? A weapon without autonomy? Or is this about voice, anger, passion, even female power? The paradox—power to kill but not to die—captures Dickinson’s fierce awareness of poetry’s dangerous immortality.

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Poem 2

“I taste a liquor never brewed –” (Fr207, J214)

I taste a liquor never brewed –
From Tankards scooped in Pearl –
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of Air – am I –
And Debauchee of Dew –
Reeling – thro’ endless summer days –
From inns of molten Blue –

When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door –
When Butterflies – renounce their “drams” –
I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats –
And Saints – to windows run –
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the – Sun!

Note: Joy, intoxication, ecstasy of nature. Here Dickinson rewrites intoxication as a spiritual state: drunk not on alcohol, but on air, dew, sky. Humor runs beneath the intensity—Saints peeking out, bees evicted from foxgloves.

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Poem 3

“After great pain, a formal feeling comes –” (Fr372, J341)

After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

The Feet, mechanical, go round –
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone –

This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

Note: Trauma in slow motion. Dickinson portrays the numb aftermath of grief: nerves stiff as tombs, feet mechanical. The “Hour of Lead” compresses weight and time into one. Notice the chilling last image: death as release.

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✨ Practice suggestion today:
Try pairing opposites: the “liquor never brewed” (ecstatic abundance) and the “Hour of Lead” (frozen grief). Dickinson moves between these poles often. Ask yourself: which mood feels nearer today?