I love what you say about a poem’s meaning. The ambiguity, allowing us to receive it where we are, is a gift of the poet to her readers.
Trying to tuck a flood inside a drawer speaks to me of what I might try to hide - grief, sadness, dissatisfaction - and the mess that this will make, has made, of things. There is no hiding from the Wind, but that does not stop me from trying! ED seems to understand the futility of this. That gives me a chance to see it, too.
There’s perhaps another poem to be written, about that floor. Or maybe I should set down the pen and get out the mop!
If we could only fold a flood! Like you, I was reminded of grief and as much as I’d like to intellectualize it, manage it, the task requires something different. Uncontainable grief is what I connected to in this poem. It’s transforming us collectively and for me, in a deeply personal way. I’d like to hear what floor thinks about it.
Get the mop and clean up a bit while the poem rolls in your mind a bit and then go out and do something besides write poetry and if possible talk with the people you meet. You wouldn't believe how tired these store clerks get with 2 jobs with Christmas just around the corner. You're sure to find material as you go. When you were working on the floor the Muse was laying out your thoughts and your outing will help you find material.
It is hard to tell whether the great Emily is describing what goes on inside her or out in the world. So the richness of understanding this poem could easily be both all at once. No matter which, the unadorned images of the drawer, a cedar floor, a fire ignites, the futility of folding a flood in a drawer, describes a stark powerlessness that feels so real. Slow night stands out. Not long night. But a slow night. What or who makes it slow? What does a slow night mean?
A fast fire on a slow night.
Today I turn 70 and reaching this age I feel a tremendous mix of gratitude and fear. Born on Pearl Harbor Day ten years after the end of WW 2 into fresh American suburban melting pot horrors and possibilities, I have long felt the winds of worlds whipping around me, inside me, grappling with a sense of what it means to have power and have none. As a teen I remember how impossible it was to be able to catch up with my own emotions, never mind what was going on in the world around me. Maybe the slow night saves us.
Your words, "grappling with a sense of what it means to have power and have none" sums every single thing up for me. What can we control? What can we not control? The tension that animated my spirit. Thank you. And Happy Birthday 🎂 to you.
Yes. Over the years this became a question about how to use my voice. Although loved in my household, my voice, my potential was underestimated and shoved aside as a child literally and metaphorically. And I have found my own way.
And on the eve of this new decade I've been shoving aside the voice that has been asking myself all year what bells do I have left to ring that I've not yet rung and yearn to ring? How can I shape what I've experienced and have to say into something meaningful, no matter how widely shared or narrowly accepted? This is a question that has been tormenting me mostly because I actually could not yet formulate that question. I was living in fear instead.
Amy, your comments have touched me. I turn 74 next month and I too question what I can contribute in the years (hopefully!) ahead. What is the legacy I want to leave.
How to keep the fire going right? There are so many ways to live with this question, no matter our circumstances. Padraig's pick of a poem this week certainly touched me too in this dark month when the smallesr light takes on bigger intensity. Warm wishes to you Bev on this 70s journey we are on.
Yes exactly. Writing a poem opens floodgates and tries to contain them all at the same time and the best of them are gorgeous and so freakin inadequate because they break us open.
It’s the images prompted by the words, that come before the skills. Though I like the neatness of the rhyme. It has a comfort, somehow.
But mostly it’s the images - they evoke biblical scenes and from that the sense of our powerlessness - the pointlessness of striving. Even when we can produce something as beautiful as a cedar floor, we’re at the mercy of the great and holy mystery.
Church and Dwight’s reply. There are a vast number of churches, temples, mosque and also home churches and or alters. Obviously Emily gave up church in her isolation. Civil War or any time of unwieldy unrest difficult.
At times spiritualities have been helpful as Richard Rohr has described but not often nit enough abd overwhelmed with nonessential threads and weaving. If one can find solace great. I have too many wants/ needs/ desire imagined to deal with any spirituality now so poems like this, writings abd thinkings like this will need to suffice though always a crack or gaps or fault lines . I hope someday for better from my cradle faith or others. You know the 12 step idea. And if not the universal good that some of us can glimpse will be around at my passing somehow.
I’m thinking about a man whose funeral I attended yesterday. He was an Episcopal priest in Memphis,Tn during Civil Rights. He called for justice, housed the homeless, fed the hungry, clothed and aided all who came his way in need. But most of all he taught us all how to do the same and to do it because it is God’s work. He is, for me, a fire that cannot be put out.
Thank you, Martha. I love thinking of funerals as a place where we recognize and appreciate the fires that cannot be put out, the many ways that a person's life and gifts will continue in those they have touched. And your priest friend sounds as if he left so much light and warmth in his wake.
I agree Joanne. We see and remember the ways that other people have set fires in us and from their example we endeavor to do the same. Reminds me of that camp song: It only takes a spark to get a fire glowing…that’s how itis with God’s love
I like seeing the earth’s elements in capital letters:
Earth = a Drawer, your Cedar Floor
Air = a Fan, the Winds, the Night
Fire = a Thing
Water = a Flood
as metaphors for human inspiration and the action verbs that move it: put, ignite, go, fold, put, find, tell.
And I had to remind myself about modal verbs, in this case: cannot, can, would. And then: indicative, imperative, and subjective moods in grammar.
Thank you, Padraig, for the historical context of this powerful, seemingly simple, poem that has meaning both for its day and for eternity: from the winds of the American Civil War to the fires and floods of climate change. Its “line of thought” prompted me to dig into Emily Dickinson’s craft and choice of language to find comfort from the warning in the work of art itself.
In this holiday season I am weathering the fire and flood of losing my son to cancer earlier this year. His birthday is December 17.Im gradually learning that grief like fire and flood has a life of its own.I want to lean into minding it, more than managing it. To open drawers more than closing them.
Sending care and concern in your tender loss. If you live in the northern hemisphere, your son's birthday is close to the longest night of the year. May the long dark be a comfort, a place to rest as you heal.
Her descriptions reminds me a little of the “anger iceberg” project that demonstrates how the “hot” emotions are what we see but under the water line are all the vulnerable emotions like loss, sadness, grief, pain. How interesting that she moved from fire to water - from blazing fire to a flood. As if moving from anger to the tears of sadness hidden below. The tears that actually cannot be hidden away.
To me, this poem is about the experience of being overwhelmed by strong motion. The first hand is about the hot emotions and the second about the moist ones. An emotion might be sparked by a momentary experience, but once it reaches a certain level (fire), it takes on a life of its own and will not be contained. Whether it be the experience of falling in love when the person you have met or known suddenly takes on an entirely different persona, or the feeling of betrayal, when you realize that someone you’ve trusted has violated that trust. The second stanza to me points to the hopelessness of trying to bury or ignore those emotions. Emily Dickinson does not give a prescription for what to do about the fire or the flood. She had left that to us to figure out..
The subject line as a rewording of Emily Dickinson's poem ("You cannot extinguish that which lights itself") really struck me this morning - especially as we are in a season of darkness with the approach of winter. Yet it is also the season of Advent - a time of hopeful waiting in darkness for the coming of Light into our very dark world. As cheesy as it sounds now, it reminds me of that 70's campfire song Pass It On - "It only takes a spark to get a fire going..." May we each carry a spark of hope & wisdom in this dark season.
Oh Dawn, thank you for this! I attended Presbyterian Church camp in Painted Post NY for many years, and we sang that song around the fire all the time! I just sang the whole song to myself. “That’s how it is with God’s love, once you’ve experienced it . . . you want to pass it on.”
My first associations to this poem are of elemental power, and perhaps her awareness of (and reverence for?) these natural forces and how they top the human desire for control.
I can get very excited about the self-organization of living systems—in this poem, to me, Fire and Flood are forces in the living system of this Earth and we must cope with the wish or fear (same-same sometimes) of having the power to exert our will upon these forces. As though we were the organizing force... (We can make a fire, but is that the fire that can ignite itself?)
I feel that she is bringing me closer to the self-organizing force within me.. my Fires and Floods.
This poem gives me a sense of relief. The first part feels hopeful, like the flame inside me and others can't be snuffed and the second part made me feel that for better or worse, no matter how much I might try to anticipate, protect, or will things into being, I am not in control of the world's unfolding.
I love what you say about a poem’s meaning. The ambiguity, allowing us to receive it where we are, is a gift of the poet to her readers.
Trying to tuck a flood inside a drawer speaks to me of what I might try to hide - grief, sadness, dissatisfaction - and the mess that this will make, has made, of things. There is no hiding from the Wind, but that does not stop me from trying! ED seems to understand the futility of this. That gives me a chance to see it, too.
There’s perhaps another poem to be written, about that floor. Or maybe I should set down the pen and get out the mop!
If we could only fold a flood! Like you, I was reminded of grief and as much as I’d like to intellectualize it, manage it, the task requires something different. Uncontainable grief is what I connected to in this poem. It’s transforming us collectively and for me, in a deeply personal way. I’d like to hear what floor thinks about it.
Get the mop and clean up a bit while the poem rolls in your mind a bit and then go out and do something besides write poetry and if possible talk with the people you meet. You wouldn't believe how tired these store clerks get with 2 jobs with Christmas just around the corner. You're sure to find material as you go. When you were working on the floor the Muse was laying out your thoughts and your outing will help you find material.
Your comment about trying to hide making a mess is spot on!!!!
A birthday candle atop a cake
Cannot be blown out, it’a a fake!
You blow it out, it reignites!
Each attempt excites, excites!
All candles are made to burn
First the light, then just the wick
Eventually we all might learn
Light without dark is just a trick.
- Dwight Lee Wolter
Ohhhhh check out the folk tale Little Match Girl.
It is hard to tell whether the great Emily is describing what goes on inside her or out in the world. So the richness of understanding this poem could easily be both all at once. No matter which, the unadorned images of the drawer, a cedar floor, a fire ignites, the futility of folding a flood in a drawer, describes a stark powerlessness that feels so real. Slow night stands out. Not long night. But a slow night. What or who makes it slow? What does a slow night mean?
A fast fire on a slow night.
Today I turn 70 and reaching this age I feel a tremendous mix of gratitude and fear. Born on Pearl Harbor Day ten years after the end of WW 2 into fresh American suburban melting pot horrors and possibilities, I have long felt the winds of worlds whipping around me, inside me, grappling with a sense of what it means to have power and have none. As a teen I remember how impossible it was to be able to catch up with my own emotions, never mind what was going on in the world around me. Maybe the slow night saves us.
Your words, "grappling with a sense of what it means to have power and have none" sums every single thing up for me. What can we control? What can we not control? The tension that animated my spirit. Thank you. And Happy Birthday 🎂 to you.
Yes. Over the years this became a question about how to use my voice. Although loved in my household, my voice, my potential was underestimated and shoved aside as a child literally and metaphorically. And I have found my own way.
And on the eve of this new decade I've been shoving aside the voice that has been asking myself all year what bells do I have left to ring that I've not yet rung and yearn to ring? How can I shape what I've experienced and have to say into something meaningful, no matter how widely shared or narrowly accepted? This is a question that has been tormenting me mostly because I actually could not yet formulate that question. I was living in fear instead.
Its been a relief now just to name the question.
Amy, your comments have touched me. I turn 74 next month and I too question what I can contribute in the years (hopefully!) ahead. What is the legacy I want to leave.
How to keep the fire going right? There are so many ways to live with this question, no matter our circumstances. Padraig's pick of a poem this week certainly touched me too in this dark month when the smallesr light takes on bigger intensity. Warm wishes to you Bev on this 70s journey we are on.
Beautiful
Love your lines: “Not long night. But a slow night.” Happy 70th! I am catching up to you :).
Thank you Michael. Yeah, what's that slow night all about? She's says slowest. I'll be chewing on that. It intrigues me.
Happy Birthday Amy!
Thank you so much! 70 for me is truly a heightened mixture of so many things.
I like to think of each birthday as a movement toward being even better wine!
It is a great gift, getting older with all its complexities
Happy Birthday, Amy.
Thank you Jordan!
Happy birthday!
Isn’t writing a poem in and of itself an act of folding a flood and storing it in a drawer?
Yes, but she says you cannot do it! Which is perhaps why you must try to 1800 times!
That’s me!
Yes exactly. Writing a poem opens floodgates and tries to contain them all at the same time and the best of them are gorgeous and so freakin inadequate because they break us open.
Yes, indeed. And, first the flooding onto the “cedar floor” of the page.
But maybe not as soon as you mail it to your friends?
Good point. I guess that would take the poem out of the drawer. But the writing is the folding.
Yes! The writing is the folding — well said!
This has saved me a journey to church today!
It’s the images prompted by the words, that come before the skills. Though I like the neatness of the rhyme. It has a comfort, somehow.
But mostly it’s the images - they evoke biblical scenes and from that the sense of our powerlessness - the pointlessness of striving. Even when we can produce something as beautiful as a cedar floor, we’re at the mercy of the great and holy mystery.
Ironically, reading this poem has prompted me to go to church, where the vestibule floor survivor of flood is made of buckling cedar.
A lovely image in itself - bucking cedar. It’s scent too. It always has a scent. I hope you found peace
Church and Dwight’s reply. There are a vast number of churches, temples, mosque and also home churches and or alters. Obviously Emily gave up church in her isolation. Civil War or any time of unwieldy unrest difficult.
At times spiritualities have been helpful as Richard Rohr has described but not often nit enough abd overwhelmed with nonessential threads and weaving. If one can find solace great. I have too many wants/ needs/ desire imagined to deal with any spirituality now so poems like this, writings abd thinkings like this will need to suffice though always a crack or gaps or fault lines . I hope someday for better from my cradle faith or others. You know the 12 step idea. And if not the universal good that some of us can glimpse will be around at my passing somehow.
🫶🏼
I appreciate your observation Lorna, I hadn’t quite seen it on my own…the fire…the flood…even the choice of “cedar” for the floor…
I’m sure there are a million other interpretations too. I’ll read them now 🧡
I’m thinking about a man whose funeral I attended yesterday. He was an Episcopal priest in Memphis,Tn during Civil Rights. He called for justice, housed the homeless, fed the hungry, clothed and aided all who came his way in need. But most of all he taught us all how to do the same and to do it because it is God’s work. He is, for me, a fire that cannot be put out.
Thank you, Martha. I love thinking of funerals as a place where we recognize and appreciate the fires that cannot be put out, the many ways that a person's life and gifts will continue in those they have touched. And your priest friend sounds as if he left so much light and warmth in his wake.
I agree Joanne. We see and remember the ways that other people have set fires in us and from their example we endeavor to do the same. Reminds me of that camp song: It only takes a spark to get a fire glowing…that’s how itis with God’s love
I am taken by the line:
You cannot extinguish
that which lights itself
There is so much of power in this poem, unstoppable power that intrigues and ignites in me, the same.
I like seeing the earth’s elements in capital letters:
Earth = a Drawer, your Cedar Floor
Air = a Fan, the Winds, the Night
Fire = a Thing
Water = a Flood
as metaphors for human inspiration and the action verbs that move it: put, ignite, go, fold, put, find, tell.
And I had to remind myself about modal verbs, in this case: cannot, can, would. And then: indicative, imperative, and subjective moods in grammar.
Thank you, Padraig, for the historical context of this powerful, seemingly simple, poem that has meaning both for its day and for eternity: from the winds of the American Civil War to the fires and floods of climate change. Its “line of thought” prompted me to dig into Emily Dickinson’s craft and choice of language to find comfort from the warning in the work of art itself.
Oooh, I love that you pull out that elements piece! Thank you!
Yes, a lot of mechanics to carry the meaning.
I love how you break this down.
It opens doors to so many deep dives into this extraordinary poem!
In this holiday season I am weathering the fire and flood of losing my son to cancer earlier this year. His birthday is December 17.Im gradually learning that grief like fire and flood has a life of its own.I want to lean into minding it, more than managing it. To open drawers more than closing them.
Sending care and concern in your tender loss. If you live in the northern hemisphere, your son's birthday is close to the longest night of the year. May the long dark be a comfort, a place to rest as you heal.
Her descriptions reminds me a little of the “anger iceberg” project that demonstrates how the “hot” emotions are what we see but under the water line are all the vulnerable emotions like loss, sadness, grief, pain. How interesting that she moved from fire to water - from blazing fire to a flood. As if moving from anger to the tears of sadness hidden below. The tears that actually cannot be hidden away.
Intriguing. I'd never heard of the "anger iceberg".
Intriguing. I'd never heard of the "anger iceberg".
To me, this poem is about the experience of being overwhelmed by strong motion. The first hand is about the hot emotions and the second about the moist ones. An emotion might be sparked by a momentary experience, but once it reaches a certain level (fire), it takes on a life of its own and will not be contained. Whether it be the experience of falling in love when the person you have met or known suddenly takes on an entirely different persona, or the feeling of betrayal, when you realize that someone you’ve trusted has violated that trust. The second stanza to me points to the hopelessness of trying to bury or ignore those emotions. Emily Dickinson does not give a prescription for what to do about the fire or the flood. She had left that to us to figure out..
I love this perspective!
The subject line as a rewording of Emily Dickinson's poem ("You cannot extinguish that which lights itself") really struck me this morning - especially as we are in a season of darkness with the approach of winter. Yet it is also the season of Advent - a time of hopeful waiting in darkness for the coming of Light into our very dark world. As cheesy as it sounds now, it reminds me of that 70's campfire song Pass It On - "It only takes a spark to get a fire going..." May we each carry a spark of hope & wisdom in this dark season.
Oh Dawn, thank you for this! I attended Presbyterian Church camp in Painted Post NY for many years, and we sang that song around the fire all the time! I just sang the whole song to myself. “That’s how it is with God’s love, once you’ve experienced it . . . you want to pass it on.”
Right.. she is bringing comfort, and warning...
My first associations to this poem are of elemental power, and perhaps her awareness of (and reverence for?) these natural forces and how they top the human desire for control.
I can get very excited about the self-organization of living systems—in this poem, to me, Fire and Flood are forces in the living system of this Earth and we must cope with the wish or fear (same-same sometimes) of having the power to exert our will upon these forces. As though we were the organizing force... (We can make a fire, but is that the fire that can ignite itself?)
I feel that she is bringing me closer to the self-organizing force within me.. my Fires and Floods.
So beautifully said
Ironic that today is Pearl Harbor Day and the opening stanza:
“You cannot put a Fire out—
A Thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a Fan—
Upon the slowest Night—“
Peace and Light,
- Dwight Lee Wolter
Let us relate the power of this holy day:
Even gold- medaled swimmers drown by flood.
Red -helmeted firemen catch on fire,
burn while fighting fires,
Good people perish pursuing peace, crayoned- signs clutched in hand.
Some end their own stories.
We all will be taken by sunshine
or by moonlight.
yet there are miracles:
for eight nights,
a chanukkiya burns bright.
in Jerusalem, a child is born.
--------------
Inspiration:
*You can not put a Fire out”
(Emily Dickinson)
*Who by Fire?
(Leonard Cohen)
*Unetanah Tokef prayer
( Let us Relate the Power
Talmud)
This poem gives me a sense of relief. The first part feels hopeful, like the flame inside me and others can't be snuffed and the second part made me feel that for better or worse, no matter how much I might try to anticipate, protect, or will things into being, I am not in control of the world's unfolding.