"A fairer House than Prose"
These beautiful lines composed by Emily Dickinson start Benoit Vermander's article on imagination. And what could better praise imagination than her poetry? Emily Dickinson who chose to seclude herself at the age of 30, wrote more than 1770 poems. She reminds me -maybe wrongly - of Marcel Proust who achieved his masterpiece enclosed during 15 years between the walls of his room, which he had beforehand soundproofed.
Stimulated by the eRenlai Springtime Focus, I decided to let my imagination run... but not too far! Actually, it just went in the hills behind my house. Roy Berman, a friend and also a contributor to the magazine, had come to visit me last summer. Later on, he sent me pictures of the slum and of the graveyard located in the other side of the hill where I dwell. I composed then a post-apocalyptic story after his pictures, trying to depict the routine of an old man who uses his imagination to replace his lost memory. This is what one could call an "imaginative" mise en abyme but I'd rather let you judge by yourself:
The Man in the Mountains
(or click here to download the pdf version)
Also, I recommend you the A Few Polar Songs by the lo-krautfolk musician Krotz Strüder who brilliantly sings 6 poems of Emily Dickinson and one by Emily Brönte. I copy here my three favorites:
The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A travelling flake of snow
Across a barn or through a rut
Debates if it will go.
A narrow wind complains all day
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.
~ Emily Dickinson
We never know we go when we are going
We jest and shut the Door
Fate - following - behind us bolts it
And we accost no more.
~ Emily Dickinson
A travelling flake of snow
Across a barn or through a rut
Debates if it will go.
A narrow wind complains all day
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.
~ Emily Dickinson
We never know we go when we are going
We jest and shut the Door
Fate - following - behind us bolts it
And we accost no more.
~ Emily Dickinson
Emily Bronte - Come, Walk With Me
Come, walk with me,
There's only thee
To bless my spirit now -
We used to love on winter nights
To wander through the snow;
Can we not woo back old delights?
The clouds rush dark and wild
They fleck with shade our mountain heights
The same as long ago
And on the horizon rest at last
In looming masses piled;
While moonbeams flash and fly so fast
We scarce can say they smiled -
Come walk with me, come walk with me;
We were not once so few
But Death has stolen our company
As sunshine steals the dew -
He took them one by one and we
Are left the only two;
So closer would my feelings twine
Because they have no stay but thine -
'Nay call me not - it may not be
Is human love so true?
Can Friendship's flower droop on for years
And then revive anew?
No, though the soil be wet with tears,
How fair soe'er it grew
The vital sap once perished
Will never flow again
And surer than that dwelling dread,
The narrow dungeon of the dead
Time parts the hearts of men
Come, walk with me,
There's only thee
To bless my spirit now -
We used to love on winter nights
To wander through the snow;
Can we not woo back old delights?
The clouds rush dark and wild
They fleck with shade our mountain heights
The same as long ago
And on the horizon rest at last
In looming masses piled;
While moonbeams flash and fly so fast
We scarce can say they smiled -
Come walk with me, come walk with me;
We were not once so few
But Death has stolen our company
As sunshine steals the dew -
He took them one by one and we
Are left the only two;
So closer would my feelings twine
Because they have no stay but thine -
'Nay call me not - it may not be
Is human love so true?
Can Friendship's flower droop on for years
And then revive anew?
No, though the soil be wet with tears,
How fair soe'er it grew
The vital sap once perished
Will never flow again
And surer than that dwelling dread,
The narrow dungeon of the dead
Time parts the hearts of men
