September 2018
Hello, V-V Villagers. Well, last week, with gratitude to my friend David Garnes, who has been conducting tours at The Homestead for years, I finally – finally -- visited Emily Dickinson. And wouldn’t you know it. I had a profoundly spiritual experience. Here is what happened.
I was standing at Emily’s desk – a miracle in itself, which sent rogue waves of passion, sadness, and joy streaming over my body. I bent to look out the window through which Emily crafted her impossibly beautiful poems and there, flying in from the Main Street area and onto The Homestead lawn, a white butterfly (I’ve since learned they’re called cabbage whites). I was stunned. I was at Emily’s actual desk. Behind me, on a mannequin, one of Emily’s white dresses, and there out her window, a white butterfly down on the lawn just….well….being a butterfly. It was nearly too much of an emotional onslaught for me to handle. I didn’t know exactly what to make of it. I certainly knew what I wanted to make of it. It was just unreal and so powerfully beautiful.
Following the appearance of the cabbage white, I went to visit Emily’s gravesite and there where those rogue waves again, only this time they were limited solely to waves of grief. People had left her all kinds of trinkets – coins, stones, jewels, notes, a pair of shoes. I left her my pen. I hid it in the grass at the base of her stone. That felt very good, indeed.
It is a day I will cherish for the rest of my life. Beyond profound. Beyond my imagination.
A couple of days later I decided to try – feebly, humbly, weakly – to pay tribute to Emily and to the white butterfly who appeared at that moment just outside her window as if to speak for Emily, saying, “Hello, John. I’m here. Thank you for coming.”
Oh, I also want to say that each of the poems which Fire has featured in this issue are from my forthcoming book Four Bits – Fifty 50-Word Pieces. I hope you like them, my friends.
Looking Out Emily's Window
From Cocoon forth a Butterfly
As Lady from her Door
Emerged -- a Summer Afternoon --
Repairing Everywhere --
-from 354
-Emily Dickinson
I wore shorts – informal –
Knew You would be gone –
Summer come – floral scent
Languid on the lawn –
I stood at Your Window –
Taking in Your view –
That’s when – dressed in cabbage White --
Lilting wings of tulle –
A butterfly – spasmodic –
Dashing – in disguise –
Entirely hypnotic –
Saying You’d arrived –
Phonebooth
I found one of the phonebooths I used to call you from 40 years ago. It was in the white room of a museum, not connected to anything. It was just a “piece.” When no one was looking I rushed inside and called you. When you answered I couldn’t talk.
My Father's Watch
I had my father’s watch repaired. $385. I couldn’t afford it any more than I could afford not repairing it.
I thought of it in a drawer, and believed, for a moment, that because it had been cast in darkness, its barrels would be empty, its jewels worn to nothing.
This next “form” I’ve named a triptych. One morning, as I was playing with language and writing my 50 word pieces I thought, “What if I write a tiny poem in two columns which, if you read it left to right it would make sense as a poem. If you read the left column only, down, it too would make sense as a poem. And finally, if you read the right column only, down, you’d have a third poem. And so…the triptych was born. Here’s one about being a poet/athlete in high school.
Scholastic Poetry Award
-1966
-a triptych
those days when football
seemed important and the confusion
the pressure to fit in to be cool
was a hard road was hard won
when I won a poetry award overwhelming
to prove I was a faggot I got jumped
my legs were shaved by the guys on the team
I was standing at Emily’s desk – a miracle in itself, which sent rogue waves of passion, sadness, and joy streaming over my body. I bent to look out the window through which Emily crafted her impossibly beautiful poems and there, flying in from the Main Street area and onto The Homestead lawn, a white butterfly (I’ve since learned they’re called cabbage whites). I was stunned. I was at Emily’s actual desk. Behind me, on a mannequin, one of Emily’s white dresses, and there out her window, a white butterfly down on the lawn just….well….being a butterfly. It was nearly too much of an emotional onslaught for me to handle. I didn’t know exactly what to make of it. I certainly knew what I wanted to make of it. It was just unreal and so powerfully beautiful.
Following the appearance of the cabbage white, I went to visit Emily’s gravesite and there where those rogue waves again, only this time they were limited solely to waves of grief. People had left her all kinds of trinkets – coins, stones, jewels, notes, a pair of shoes. I left her my pen. I hid it in the grass at the base of her stone. That felt very good, indeed.
It is a day I will cherish for the rest of my life. Beyond profound. Beyond my imagination.
A couple of days later I decided to try – feebly, humbly, weakly – to pay tribute to Emily and to the white butterfly who appeared at that moment just outside her window as if to speak for Emily, saying, “Hello, John. I’m here. Thank you for coming.”
Oh, I also want to say that each of the poems which Fire has featured in this issue are from my forthcoming book Four Bits – Fifty 50-Word Pieces. I hope you like them, my friends.
Looking Out Emily's Window
From Cocoon forth a Butterfly
As Lady from her Door
Emerged -- a Summer Afternoon --
Repairing Everywhere --
-from 354
-Emily Dickinson
I wore shorts – informal –
Knew You would be gone –
Summer come – floral scent
Languid on the lawn –
I stood at Your Window –
Taking in Your view –
That’s when – dressed in cabbage White --
Lilting wings of tulle –
A butterfly – spasmodic –
Dashing – in disguise –
Entirely hypnotic –
Saying You’d arrived –
Phonebooth
I found one of the phonebooths I used to call you from 40 years ago. It was in the white room of a museum, not connected to anything. It was just a “piece.” When no one was looking I rushed inside and called you. When you answered I couldn’t talk.
My Father's Watch
I had my father’s watch repaired. $385. I couldn’t afford it any more than I could afford not repairing it.
I thought of it in a drawer, and believed, for a moment, that because it had been cast in darkness, its barrels would be empty, its jewels worn to nothing.
This next “form” I’ve named a triptych. One morning, as I was playing with language and writing my 50 word pieces I thought, “What if I write a tiny poem in two columns which, if you read it left to right it would make sense as a poem. If you read the left column only, down, it too would make sense as a poem. And finally, if you read the right column only, down, you’d have a third poem. And so…the triptych was born. Here’s one about being a poet/athlete in high school.
Scholastic Poetry Award
-1966
-a triptych
those days when football
seemed important and the confusion
the pressure to fit in to be cool
was a hard road was hard won
when I won a poetry award overwhelming
to prove I was a faggot I got jumped
my legs were shaved by the guys on the team
©2018 John L. Stanizzi
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