In which I try to explicate an Emily Dickinson poem and it turns into an imaginary conversation with several like-minded friends.
We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s Act—
And later—when we die—
A little Water supplicate—
Of fingers going by—
It intimates the finer want—
Whose adequate supply
Is that Great Water in the West—
Termed Immortality—
F750, J726, Fascicle 36, 1863
What is the connection between natural thirst and spiritual thirst? They don’t seem to be related, at first. One is a biological mechanism necessary to maintain the sustenance of H20. There is an evolutionary basis to it.
Though if you are questioning the origin of life itself, I suppose you could still take it back to a spiritual level. There are deeper laws in the universe than
OKAY
I’m going to take this one in a different way.
Trey Parker and Matt Stone saying the logical evolution of South Park is an acid trip.
This is what I want for Emily here, a holiday.
There are deeper layers of the universe, beyonder layers,
And from these layers spring lower orders, that which consists of “time.” We are stuck in time. Wonderfully, poignantly so. Inside of time, thirst makes sense. It makes sense because physical fuel-based energy system can only exist inside of time.
Haha, who’s following me? I don’t think even I could follow this claptrap. Clap your trap, DeGraff.
Actually, I forgot. You are following this. Oh, I love you!
(And only you.)
Okay, back to Nature’s first act. Thirst. Back to Nature’s thirst act, first. Who’s on thirst? No, Who’s on seconds. Exactly. Thirst can only exist in time. Time and thirst are inextricable.
Is this true though on a Spiritual level? Is fuel needed in the ethereal spirit world? Can there be any need when you have immortality?
I don’t think so. Okay, back to the everloving poem.
And later—when we die—
A little Water supplicate—
Of fingers going by—
(I’m thinking of you now, not him.)
Later when we die. Okay, to the point. We are still begging, supplicating. Life is a beggar’s banquet, to quote the sometimes great Mick “You can’t always get what you want” Jagger.
I’m thinking of Her now.
Fingers going by, so tender, so touching, brushing fingertips, as they go by, warming, tingling with life, with reach.
It intimates the finer want—
Whose adequate supply
She rhymes supplicate with intimate. She is the subtlest of rhymsters. I’m think of Jim Behrle now. He’s a hamster. Hiya, Jimmy! You intimate the finer want. Haha.
I need to read this on New Years Day. Hi me then and now you.
There is a finer want in us. Not as in better. (Can you get better than water?) But more refined, less material, more subtle. But no greater. A living water, as Christ said.
What is that living water? I want to know!
Is that Great Water in the West—
Termed Immortality—
It’s funny who I think of sometimes. Nada Gordon is funny. I like her animals too. Bill Luoma once suggested a title a book: “Incoming Animals.” I believe I called it “The Hawaii Poems" instead. What a stupid title. Well, at least Bill’s title is incoming now, better late than never.
Better late than too late. At somewhere Clark Coolidge is believing.
Juliana always comes after Bill. Though I believe Bill came before Juliana. Oh boy. They are both giants, coming. Would Emily like it if Juliana came over. Would Sue? I doubt it. Juliana once woke me up in the middle of the night to see a rare night-blooming cereus.
But in the morning she still wouldn't say good morning. She only blossomed on rare nights.
The great water in the West is the sunset right? The end of something. Something material. Not something spiritual. And yet the spiritual seems to be somehow tied into the material. How? Through Beauty? Now I’m thinking of Maja Lukic, of Sumi Kaipa, of Suji Kwock Kim, too many beautiful poets to believe. Marina Eckler. Karen Weiser. Renee Gladman. Hoa. Hoa. Hoa. Keats’s love. I probably shouldn’t go on. But I could. Until I got to Alex Cory.
The Great Water in the West. Is it beauty? Like the beauty of a sunset? The glory of an inflamed love upon the poignancy of leaving?
I don’t know Dale, what do you think. I know you have a thousand poems on the subject. A whole series just based on the collaboration of Robert Duncan and Lisa Jarnot, I know.
I don’t know why Javier Paolo just popped his head in. He’s just cool like that. Queen’s legend.
Like Cedar Sigo, olde gold from the 49er days. Thanks for stopping by. Like I used to, on your couch, part of the drapery, admiring your drip.
Dave Outhouse can’t not come knocking, followed by Will Yackulic, Micah Ballard. Bunch of Zeitguist habitues. Squatters and Gobblers.
Okay, this might have gone off the rails. I have no idea. I’ll have to wait to see.
Emily, in past poems, has eschewed immortality a something boring and long. She has also used it, I believe, to term a moment of indeterminacy.
Like this one, dedicated to Julien Poirier, with love.
And also, as a moment of nowness, of which forevers are composed.
Another one, I’m not so sure about, but is well worth investigating. The Christ model. The self sacrifice for other. That one is deep.
So we have beauty, the sunset, and truth, sacrifice of self for beauty as it is found in the human heart. As it is found there. In nature. First. Last?
I don’t think I can possibly print this in Prowling Bee. Susan may roll over in her garden.
I’m going to have to find another place. Maybe Noel Black’s Face. Haha. Like a bespoke mustache. I mustache him if his face is available. I would like what’’s her name, that hilarious poet, to hand-write it in very small letters there. The word "dimple" aimed at his right dimple. I’m not embarrassed. You're embarrassed.
I think this must be the first of a series. Though it may be too salty, sweet, spicy or sour for tomorrow’s thirst. But can you really overdo it if you have
Anahid Nesessian.
If you have all quadrants in equal array.
The main thing is to use your friends.
Haha.
I mean abuse your friends.
With bondage play.
See Emily’s last poem for reference. It’s hot.
I’m thinking of Anselm, which then always leads to Eddie
and that whole extended family,
which really includes me now,
materially, since my wife was
was introduced to me thereof.
I should tell you the story about meeting Anselm. Some other time.
But also Spiritually, because I met most of you
through they, one way or another,
Who I suppose I met through Berkeley,
Lyn Hejinian, Charles Altieri, Michael Palmer,
And that milieu. I’m very pretentious now.
Hey when did this essay turn into a poem?
Jennifer Moxley, you and Steve
Remind me all of the sudden of
Lytle Shaw and Emilie Clark.
Then the Berrigans lead me to meeting Phil Whalen.
Those little Ducky Toes.
And Bill Berkson.
Or maybe Bill introduced us to Phil?
Still, it begins with the Berrigans.
And ends.
Okay. So what. So we will begin again. With the next poem.
