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[Poetry Chaikhana] Emily Dickinson - There came a Day at Summer's full

Here's your Daily Poem from the Poetry Chaikhana --

 

There came a Day at Summer's full

By Emily Dickinson
(1830 - 1886)

 

There came a Day at Summer's full,
Entirely for me
I thought that such were for the Saints,
Where Resurrections be

The Sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no soul the solstice passed
That maketh all things new

The time was scarce profaned, by speech
The symbol of a word
Was needless, as at Sacrament,
The Wardrobe of our Lord

Each was to each The Sealed Church,
Permitted to commune this time
Lest we too awkward show
At Supper of the Lamb.

The Hours slid fast as Hours will,
Clutched tight, by greedy hands
So faces on two Decks, look back,
Bound to opposing lands

And so when all the time had leaked,
Without external sound
Each bound the Other's Crucifix
We gave no other Bond

Sufficient troth, that we shall rise
Deposed at length, the Grave
To that new Marriage,
Justified through Calvaries of Love

 

-- from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, Edited by Thomas H. Johnson

Amazon.com


/ Photo by xlordashx /

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Thought for the Day:

It is impossible to settle
into the present
without first cultivating
contentment.

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Here's your Daily Music selection --


Baird Hersey & Prana with Krishna Das

Gathering in the Light

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Hi Omss -

Something today to honor the Summer Solstice...

So, what do you think she means by a "Day at Summer's full, / Entirely for me --" that she thought was only for "Saints, / Where Resurrections -- be --"? With lines like this, can we doubt that Emily Dickinson was an American mystic? How many of us were taught in high school that she was a morbid spinster? Read her poetry side-by-side with Rumi or Mirabai, and she'll be among her true peers.

I especially like the third stanza. This eternal moment she has discovered is "scarce profaned, by speech -- / The symbol of a word / Was needless..." Emily Dickinson is experiencing complete and profound silence, where the mind stops trying to chop its awareness of reality into manageable conceptual pieces. Instead, the mind at rest, the blissful, unedited awareness of reality floods in. We discover that reality does not need to be clothed with the chatter or conceptualization of the mind, just as the Lord needs no "Wardrobe"... "at Sacrament".

She invites us to recognize that we are each "The Sealed Church" and "permitted to commune" with the Eternal. In other words, we don't need the intermediary of an external church, the true church is already within us and complete. This is the proper place of communion. In fact she urges us to regularly spend time in our internal communion so that when we finally come before the Divine, we are not "awkward." That sacred "Supper" should already be familiar to us.

Regardless of how quickly the Hours slide past -- as Hours do -- when we come to rest in silence and deep inner communion, we find we have returned to the eternal moment at Summer's full.

Ivan

 

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Funny Poem of the Week by FunnyPoets.com

a href='http://www.funnypoets.com'>FunnyPoets.com Your funny poem of the week is:

Ringo Blues

Copyright; Graham Fredriksen
From his book 'Paradise Revisited'

He's bought himself a set of drums -
Seems that's the latest fad
For them with teenage craniums
Just to annoy their Dad.
So now it's straight into his room
When he gets home from school:
A raucous thunderous sonic boom -
Could make die dead rise from die tomb
...And those alive to fear their doom -
A racket dial is cruel;
An audio nightmare of gloom
As decibels and senses zoom,
My ears and I can now assume...
That Ringo's on his stool.

As drums resound and cymbals crash,
The airwaves saturate;
Bush poetry's a culture clash -
He says I'm out of date.
His hair is fifteen shades of blue...
He only wears what's cool...
He bangs away the evening through...
He says I wouldn't have a clue...
But oh!! that noise!! I'm tellin' you...
When Ringo's on his stool!!

With peace and quiet vanished now
From in our neighborhood,
I get no more milk from the cow,
The dog's left home for good,
The chooks have all stopped layin' eggs,
The goldfish left his pool,
The cat has even found his legs,
My home-made beer has turned to dregs.
Is that a tune ? - the question begs...
When Ringo's on his stool.

The ducks from on the billabong
Have all flown south for Spring;
No more we hear the magpie's song -
He's lost his urge to sing.
T.V.'s a relic of the past -
Those drums win every duel;
Not even ghetto-blasters blast
As loud or even half as fast...
While ear-drums flutter at half mast...
When Ringo's on his stool.

The Flick man has no need to call -
Our cockroaches have gone;
The termites that live in the wall -
They too are moving on.
It could well drive a man to drink...
But who am I to fool ?
I have already crossed that brink -
I cannot hear myself to think -
And oh...this week, his hair is pink...
That's Ringo on his stool.

So I thought I would be the bird
And grow myself some wings,
Until today...! got the word
That somehow changes things.
The music shop is on the phone:
This afternoon it comes -
An instrument that's all my own -
He need no longer play alone -
We'll form a band that's all home-grown
I'm flexing up my gums;
Though I'm tone-deaf as any stone,
I'll join the raucous monotone -
Me playing my new saxophone...
While Ringo...plays his drums.

Copyright; Graham Fredriksen


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