They shut me up in Prose | Telling the Truth

July 13, 2018

Open Mic Night!

I woke up this morning already excited about this evening. I get to read some of my poems again! Out loud! In front of a friendly audience of children, young people, parents and friends of all ages. In the gym at the church. A fundraiser to help support our young people’s summer project in Philadelphia.

Despite my heavy-duty awesome age, I still feel like a little kid when I share bits of my life by way of my poetry.

I’ve never been one for writing or telling stories. I know a good storyteller when I hear or read one. That means I know I’m not One of Them. Though happy accidents do happen now and then.

Prose has been my main thing for most of my life. Yet I’m more than ready to let it take a back seat to poetry. In fact, when I reread some of my prose, I hear the poet in me already sneaking a poetic spirit into my prose.

I can’t help thinking about Emily Dickinson’s lovely poem, “They shut me up in Prose.” None of that flighty poetry stuff! We want to hear a story or a well-reasoned argument. Something we can take apart, piece by piece. Or at least keep under control. To keep you under control, of course.

The ability to write prose with an ear for cadence and choice of words got me where I am today. Not just as a student, educator and administrator, but as an adult woman whose childhood and youth were ruled by a relentlessly letter-of-the law father. Flights of poetic fancy were frowned upon. As were overt emotions spontaneously expressed. With the occasional exception of Christmas and birthdays.

When I read through early posts about my childhood and youth, I’m grateful for the ability to write prose. Yet even there I hear the cadences of poetry. Though it isn’t direct, it’s a persistent sign of life already aching for attention.

So tonight I get to revel in the poet I’m becoming. One step closer to the little girl and woman I am and have always been on the inside.

Am I going to give up prose? No way. I’m not locked up in anything–not in poetry and not in prose. Still, you can expect more poetry. A delightfully underground way of getting just about anywhere.

Cheers!
Elouise♥

©Elouise Renich Fraser, 13 July 2018
Image found at resetco.org

8 Comments

February 23, 2017

I dwell in Possibility —

~~Emilio Magistretti, il Duomo, General exterior view from the east, 1921.

Do you remember They shut me up in Prose – ? Here Emily proclaims the superiority of her fairer House. That would be Poetry, of course! Here’s her poem, followed by my comments.

I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of Eye –
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –

c. 1862

Emily Dickinson Poems, Edited by Brenda Hillman
Shambhala Pocket Classics, Shambhala 1995

Several things catch my eye immediately.

This poem isn’t directly about Possibility and Impossibility. It’s about ‘the fairer House than Prose.’ That would be Poetry.
Emily’s sequence of thought moves from the concrete to nature, and on to Paradise! Nothing small or narrow in her vision of Poetry.
Within this House, Emily’s internal Chambers allow total privacy—‘Impregnable of Eye.’ Perhaps unnumbered Chambers of fragrant Cedar make sure no prying Eyes (like moths) intrude to eat or destroy their contents.
Above this ‘fairer House than Prose’ lies no ordinary gambrel (a type of roof), but the Sky itself. Higher than high, spacious, deep, wide, unbounded.
Emily doesn’t even bother with a formal front door, lock or key. Instead, this dwelling place is already filled with light, vistas and Visitors. Who are these ‘fairest’ Visitors?
It seems Emily doesn’t need to go outside to practice her Occupation. Instead, she makes a simple gesture—“spreading wide my narrow Hands To gather Paradise.”

At first, Emily’s simple gesture irritated me. As though this Occupation (writing poetry) could be like falling off a cliff into magic land. But I don’t think that’s her meaning.

Emily says her Hands (perhaps literal, certainly figurative) are narrow, and must be spread wide to catch a bit of Paradise. There’s humility and expectation in this gesture. An acknowledgment that ‘something’ is out there waiting to be gathered. And so she spreads her narrow hands wide and receives an overflow of Paradise.

Emily also acknowledges her ‘fairest’ Visitors. Maybe they’re poets, or their inspiring poetry resides on the bookshelves of her fairer House than Prose. Perhaps they’re also birds, bees, butterflies, sunsets and sunrises. All creation great and small. No matter their identity, Emily welcomes them into her fairer House than Prose.

I suggest Emily herself is the ‘House’ in which she dwells. A House that’s both narrow (limited as any of our bodily houses are), and exceptionally open to what lies beyond her limited capacity to discern with her eyes.

And so she spreads wide her narrow Hands to gather Paradise into her cryptic, hesitant, enigmatic and captivating Poetry. And we are the happy recipients–now politely, of course, visiting her Poetry.

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November 27, 2016