When I looked again, I knew who they were:  Emily, the spider, and me.

I don’t always care for her piety, but to my ear,  she is probably the best poet this country has produced.   What’s weird is that some of her best stuff is inches away from doggerel.  How does she do it?  It’s a mystery to me.

And so, we come to Emily Dickinson, Queen of the Neurotic Chicks.  When life has been empty so many times it’s a so what, when every detail of daily life prosecutes and convicts, when your suffering is utterly uncaused, and therefore irredeemable, why then it’s time for Emily Dickinson.   With Emily, no moment may be unremarkable.  It is either a moment of ecstasy, a moment of rapturous communion with the immanent, transcendent and ineffable Presence, or it is a soul-searing indictment of one’s complete and utter failure.  Anything else is unthinkable.

We will sojourn with her again.  But for now, the poem illustrated above.  Or listen to Aaron Copland’s setting.

Why—do they shut Me out of Heaven?
Did I sing—too loud?
But—I can say a little “Minor”
Timid as a Bird!

Wouldn’t the Angels try me—
Just—once—more—
Just—see—if I troubled them—
But don’t—shut the door!

Oh, if I—were the Gentleman
In the “White Robe”—
And they—were the little Hand—that knocked—
Could—I—forbid?