My relationship with Emily Dickinson is one fraught with neglect.
I wont say i dont like her poetry, because that is a lie. Its simply that i dont read her work anymore.
After high school, she was my go to muse whose voice i stole, even as she red her work in my head. But as i trapped that soul that insisted that poetry sounds better read in our heads than spoken aloud, it became obvious we shared a same thought.
As much as i admire her style and brevity in expression, i have to be honest. I dont really know much of her work to begin with.
Yes, theres a famous quote about feeling sheltered and a poem about death knocking on her door, but as i recall my early days typing out those inspired efforts in control and metaphor on my windows 98 notepad, the more obvious it becomes how indebted i am to her phrasing and refusal to say simply what exactly she is referring to.
Back in the early 2000s, psedu-online academics complained about millenials and their insistance upon the use of obfuscation to hide their meaning, but for emily i think the more appropriate choice of words is cryptic.
You wont believe this, but theres quite the insalted chip on emily’s shoulder being expressed thru this poem.
Like a lil’ wine rap poet who thinks she can out “plane” my own obvious body of work, she seems to think shes clever by comparing herself to Jesus by insisting she was “formed” as a “carpenter.”
As she brags about her ability to work with wood, a not so subtle euphesism for the erections she giving “us” (shes insistent upon making sure the right pronoun is differentiated between her “i” and “we’, pervert! 🤦), it becomes quite obvious shes making sure the reader has to read between her lines to figure out shes refering to someone else. Who that person is will forever be indebted to her refusal to say, but i have a feeling its two out-of-shape ghosts who were having fun with her ouija bored she tended to play with when trying to connect with them.
Yeah, shes clever and yeah we both could use an indian’s thesaurus, but if this braggadadoccio white 47-year-old hussy can think she can out whit my own obvious word choice, just timber it takes two much stronger halves to hold up a pillar.
The funny thing about this poem, tho, is the realization that the more i envy over it, it’s the the meta-narrative behind it that makes “us” laugh.
Written during an enfuriating and chill November fall that year in Massachusets, i think she was referring to an infamous cake recipe of hers that can be found on http://www.pinterest.com. As if reminding the “builder” himself that she was going to bake a way-too-good brick cake that year, the use of the phrase “measure out” giving this meta in-joke away, she does let slip her own admission at being broke. Acknowledging her own lack of skill at her own craft, a humble admission that her well was running dry when trying to think of something to write about, its her honest but frank insiatence that the builder would “hire us” if we could simply get better at our craft.
I hate to remind mrs. Dickinson, tho, that poets dont make money, and even carpenters have to advertise their bench their sitting on. “At halves” we are indeed, tho ill take a quarter of that cake. Lil wine wants to share thay brick ur baking. 🤦👄👄👄💬💀
While we’re being honest, ill just ask God himself for forgiveness as i admit id love for her own human “tools” to size up my own wood.
If she was obvious like modern moseses such as myself and maybe lil’ wine 🤦, she would have compared her skill with her crayons (how else is she drawing “faces” with her “tools”?) to being a mason.
Instead she has to humble us by remindimg us shes the martyr hoe gets to command us modern and illiterate obvious poets that she knows how to even a bored, but let me and lil wine 🤦 tell u sumthin right now babe. We may be the lil’ dicks inside ur sun 🤦💬💬💬😎, but we’re the builders, got it!
Now stop “toiling” on that “bench” and help me and my other lil’ wine 🤦 “half” hold up this pillar so we can put a roof on this damn temple (body!!! 🤦💬💬💬🤔 – read the good book!!!! 🤦💬💬💬🤔).
Yeah, we’ll do as you command us to do, but you’re the carpenter, got it! Now go cross urself as u remind us about how mny eggs u could afford to bake that brick.
Moses has got his work cunt out for himself.