poetry and horror

In women writers today, we were discussing the poet Amy Lowell--brilliant artist! As she made mention to Emily Dickinson in one of her poems, and as there was some confusion as to her reference, we looked back at some of Dickinson's poetry that is in this anthology we are using.

The lines that started the confusion were in a poem called "The Sisters." "But Emily would set doors ajar and slam them/And love you for your speed of observation." So the question was raised as to what the heck Lowell was referring. If you are familiar with Dickinson's poetry, you will know that her poems are frequently short and also hyphenated with dashes, so that they just keep rushing forward. (That's what Lowell was talking about.)

So as we were glancing over the selections of Dickinson's poetry, I came across poem 280 and was struck by it. So I strike you, my readers, in turn:

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading--treading--till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through--

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum--
Kept beating--beating--till I thought
My Mind was going numb--

And then I heard them life a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space--began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here--

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down--
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing--then--

And it ends. I'm not sure if it's meant to be incomplete, but I like that it is. It seems purposeful. The reason I included it here, well, is because I can really relate to this emotion these days. I feel like I'm honestly going crazy...slowly...and it pretty much sucks. I guess that's life, but I don't like it.

Something else: I have this curious, raised pink lump on my arm. It's about an inch long and about an eighth of an inch wide. I know what it's from--I put it there. I'm trying to determine why I did. I used a pair of scissors and started scraping at my arm last night. Again, I'm not sure why. Maybe there was this morbid fascination of whether or not I could get my arm to bleed. I was unsuccessful, but I wasn't necessarily trying to "cut" myself. Goodness, if I had the guts to do that, I would have just done it. But I don't. Instead, now I have this strange pink line on my arm.

And that's why I'm horrified. I'm a little taken back that I actually did this to myself.