I had been hungry all the years;
My noon had come, to dine;
I, trembling, drew the table near,
And touched the curious wine.
My noon had come, to dine;
I, trembling, drew the table near,
And touched the curious wine.
'T was this on tables I had seen,
When turning, hungry, lone,
I looked in windows, for the wealth
I could not hope to own.
When turning, hungry, lone,
I looked in windows, for the wealth
I could not hope to own.
I did not know the ample bread,
'T was so unlike the crumb
The birds and I had often shared
In Nature's dining-room.
'T was so unlike the crumb
The birds and I had often shared
In Nature's dining-room.
The plenty hurt me, 't was so new,
Myself felt ill and odd,
As berry of a mountain bush
Transplanted to the road.
Myself felt ill and odd,
As berry of a mountain bush
Transplanted to the road.
Nor was I hungry; so I found
That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.
That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.
In the poem, the speaker describes the desolate feeling of "looking in windows,/for the wealth (she) could not hope to own." She is hopeless to satisfy her "hunger" or desire for life's riches, but miraculously "when (her) noon comes to dine" -- when she is finally able to partake of life's "plenty" -- she feels "ill and odd" or "transplanted" unnaturally. She finds that desire is the fuel of life, thus true happiness or satisfaction is found in the doing, not in the getting what she wants -- so it is better that she remain a "person outside windows" since "the entering takes away."
I first read this Dickinson poem near the end of a two month hospitalization when I was 17. I immediately related to the superficial idea of "hunger" or "being hungry all the years" since I literally could not hold food or liquid down during that time, had lost nearly 15 Ibs. (which on my tiny frame might as well be 30!) and I imagined it would take years for me to be able to eat normal meals as others could. But, food was not all that I desired. I remember, even through the delirium of my illness, watching Ellen Degeneres or Oprah Winfrey in the afternoons and being so envious of their distinguished, often beautiful and vibrant guests who seemed to live full, satisfying lives. From the isolated hospital room (which had no accessible windows), I thought it impossible that I'd ever be able to simply have a "normal" life as they experienced in a heightened form. So, I felt akin to the poem's speaker as "a person outside windows...looking in (windows) for the wealth I could not hope to own." While it took me several months to recover following my release from the hospital, the "normal life" that I yearned for during my convalescence so rapidly developed that I often felt disorientated "as a berry of a mountain bush transplated to a road," and strangely longed for the safe confines of the hospital room where I could simply observe the lives others were blessed to live.
When I visited Emily Dickinson's Homestead during a writing retreat in Amherst, Massachussetts two years ago (Denia, you remember our visit, don't you?), I learned about the significance of poem #579 in the poet's own life. Dickinson spent most of the days of her brief life in her room on the second floor, composing her poetry at a tiny wood desk with a carousene lamp facing the room's only window looking out to a woodland that separated her homestead from her brother's house next door, as this NPR story explains:
A Flowering Tribute to Emily Dickinson:
The NPR story also describes how Dickinson would take her 2 year old niece, Mattie, up to her room, close the door, lock it and -- taking Mattie to the window -- declare that "This is freedom!". The story goes on to explain, however, that Dickinson, a gardener as well as a poet, loved nature, "was always attached to mud," and wrote in another poem, "Some keep the sabbath going to church,/I keep it staying at home/with a bobolink for a chorister/and an orchard for a dome."
So, the aesthetics of the blog pay homage to both the image of the window and the image of nature with the lush green leaves/bushes around the border that give way to an "outside window" that looks into the white open space where the text is written.
Finally, even the One Republic music video for "Good Life" included in the first post coincidentally pays homage to poem #579's notion of "Open Windows," visually representing them with the transparent screens held by young people which show the band in an open field (nature) and lamenting in one verse, "Hopelessly, I feel like there might be something that I've missed/Hopelessly, I feel like the window closes up so quick... but declaring in another verse that "...When Everything is Out, You Gotta Take it In."
...which is what I hope this blog helps me do during my time in England!
Thanks for the lovely personal context to this poem by Dickinson. I will always remember you and Emily as kindred spirits!
ReplyDeleteA few months ago, the NY Metropolitan Museum of Art featured an exhibit of 19th century artists who had discovered a new perspective of looking through windows to a scene beyond, so Emily D. must have been in sync with her artistic contemporaries on the European continent. The show was discussed by the CBS Sunday Morning art analyst, Martha Teichner,too. At the time I saw the show, I wished very much to hop on a plane to go see the exhibit in NY. Fortunately, I can send you links to some of the art shown at the museum's past show and to the wonderful video of Teichner's segment:
http://www.metmuseum.org/special/open_window/images.asp
http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=7366106n&tag=mncol;lst;1
(There is a brief commercial ad in the beginning.)
As for the wishing, dreaming aspect of looking out a window--I sometimes view it as looking from behind a safety screen. My house/room can be both a prison and a sanctuary, or a place free from fear---a tantalizing pivot point of emotions. Perhaps that is why the American dream home features a picture window looking upon a beautiful natural vista--a steep cliff, a raging ocean--but the viewer is safely inside away from the primal dangers. I feel that way during every Florida storm and yet feel a little shut out from our summer heat, too--envious of the birds' freedom to fly to cooler heights!
I am also somehow reminded of 1 Cor. 13:12-- its noted phrasing of "through a glass darkly" that I re-read in one of John Donne's sermons during your mom's 17th century metaphysical poetry class. I think St. Paul uses the dark glass to refer to mortality's ignorance of eternal life--the other side of the glass is union with God.
Perhaps in the near life/death experiences such as you have had, you've been able to truly see through the window in a blessed moment.
To extend the commentary a bit since I am reading The Luncheon of the Boating Party by Susan Vreeland, I have learned that Vermeer and then Renoir also continued to stretch the concept of perspective by trying to capture faces as seen through glass--I'll tell you more about my understanding of this technique later.