Soozee Carmichael
Emily Dickinson Response
February 9, 2013
As I read Emily
Dickinson this time through, I kept having this story play through my
mind as I read her words. I am not a poet at all, but I am a writer
and I felt that I could best express my impression of Emily
Dickinson's poetry through a story of my own. This is just an excerpt
of what I saw in my mind, and much like her poetry, you will see only
a tiny glimpse of a much broader idea. I feel that this story best
captures my feelings of the poetry we read because it's a story that
focuses on a ballerina named Emma who thinks that everything around
her is real, but in reality everything she is seeing is false and the
dream that she keeps having is real. She is actually married to the
man in her dreams, but she has been taken and made to think that he
never existed, thus making him just a dream to her. So she keeps
seeing him in her mind and knowing that he is significant, but she
has no way of knowing exactly how to get to him, or that he is real.
I feel that there is a sense of longing and hopefulness in the midst
of these poems that kind of remind me of what Emma is feeling. In
some ways, I think Emma understands Emily Dickinson far better than I
could. This story reminds me of Ms. Dickinson's poems specifically
about eternity, nature and beauty. Not that the other poems we read
don't apply, there are just several that really led me to write the
excerpt below.
More
Than Just A Dream
Sometimes I dream
about him. And then I wake up alone and I reach out in between my
dream and reality as if reaching for him will bring him closer to me.
The dream is always the same. It starts out so happy and peaceful.
We're having a picnic in this beautiful meadow with silver trees. The
trees aren't entirely silver, they have veins of silver running
through them. They're magical. And so is he. His messy perfect hair,
his gorgeous eyes, and the way he looks at me and makes me feel so
loved. We are there laughing when the sky suddenly goes dark and a
shadow passes over his face. He get up and he takes my hand. Its all
very quick as he tries to get to safety, wherever that is.
Someone is
following us. Stalking us. He keeps a firm grip on my hand and keeps
looking back to make sure I'm still there. “Don't let go!” he
keeps shouting as we run down a steep hill covered in jagged rocks.
He looks at me, and then at his watch. He looks at me again and is
saying something, but I can't understand him. Whatever is following
us is getting closer. I can't see the creature-whatever it is, but I
can tell it's getting close. I can feel it.
And then he's gone.
My love has vanished and my hand falls to my side as I start to slow.
I don't know where I'm going. And then everything goes dark and I
wake up. I can't remember his name, and as soon as I wake up the
details of his face start to fade. It's like there's something that
doesn't want me to remember him. Whoever he is, he left me there,
though. Alone. To face the darkness. But I still reach for him. And I
realize that my twin bed wouldn't fit anyone but me any way. My hand
reaches out for the love that isn't there and finds cold air of the
frigid January morning in New York.
I get up and walk
to the window, as if looking out will bring him closer to me.
Absentmindedly, I play with the ring on my left hand. It doesn't mean
anything to me, but I wear it any way. It catches every glimmer of
light that is around. I twirl it around my finger over and over again
without realizing I'm doing it. It's become a habit. I almost feel
like it's supposed to remind me of something, but I can't think of
what. And then I remember the man in my dreams. I don't know who he
was, but it is as if our souls were attached, and we can't live
without each other. But dreams are all that I have. I don't know what
else to do, I know he doesn't exist. That much is never spoken, but
understood in my mind.
My bookshelf stood
beside my window. An old black book caught my eye, I picked it up. It
was the complete works of Emily Dickinson. I had always loved her
poetry. The way that they stood out from the ordinary and brought a
darker shadow to the ordinary. I somehow felt that she understood my
life and the craziness that I felt each day as I awoke from the same
dream; as if my reality was just out of reach. I opened the pages and
read the first poem I came to:
13
Sleep
is supposed to be
By
souls of sanity
The
shutting of the eye.
Sleep
is the station grand
Down
which, on either hand
The
hosts of witness stand!
Morn
is supposed to be
By
people of degree
The
breaking of the Day.
Morning
has not occurred!
That
shall Aurora be —
East
of Eternity —
One
with the banner gay —
One
in the red array —
That
is the break of Day!
“Emma?” I hear
my name from behind me. I turn and see Nikki standing in my doorway.
Our apartment is small, and I'm sure she heard me in my sleep again.
“Sorry, was I
talking in my sleep again?” This was becoming a nightly occurrence.
“No, but I heard
you get up and wanted to make sure you were alright. How did you
sleep? Did you have the dream again?” Nikki looked concerned,
again. She had been my best friend for as long as I could remember.
She knew everything about me.
“Yeah, I did.
It's always the same. The same guy, the same place, the same darkness
chasing us. I wish I knew what it meant.” I closed the book that
spoke directly to my soul, putting all of my thoughts, doubts and
fears onto paper. As I placed it back on the shelf I turned to Nikki,
“Maybe it's
better if you don't.” I turned back to the window and watched the
people rushing through the rain below us. I didn't want to ignore
these dreams. They meant something. I just didn't know what.
“He's not real,
Em. There's no one that could be that perfect. And, I don't know of
anywhere that has silver trees. So, it's all in your fantastic
imagination. Now lets go, we have rehearsal in like 35 minutes and
I'm pretty sure that it's going to be a really long rehearsal since
we've only got three days until the show opens. Too bad not everyone
has their part down like you do.” It was true, ballet had come
naturally to me. I was the prima ballerina in the New York City
Ballet. You don't just wake up in that position. It takes a lot of
hard work and dedication. I had given up everything to achieve this
dream. Nothing was going to stand in my way.
I got ready quickly
and we rushed over to the studio. We were the last ones there. We
joined in with everyone else warming up and before I knew it, we were
in the midst of running through the entire performance. Something odd
had been going on, and I couldn't quite figure out how to explain it.
My dance partner's name was David, and although he was incredibly
talented, I felt like I had never danced with him before in my life.
He was more rigid than necessary and we didn't exactly flow well
together. There was something off about the way we danced. I also
kept calling him Marques, which was odd. There were so many
unexplained oddities in my life. I felt like I was living in a dream
and that nothing was real. But how can reality not be real? How can
everything I see in front of me and feel and do and touch be false?
No comments:
Post a Comment