HOUSE OF POSSIBILITY
The poet asks only to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits.—G.K. Chesterton
I am taking an online course in Modern Poetry, affectionately known to teachers and students as ModPo. Armed with brandy and chocolate, I finally began serious work in the course last week, and now I’m in love. We began with a beautiful jewel—almost hymnal in its cadence—by Emily Dickinson.
I dwell in Possibility—
A fairer House than Prose—
More numerous of Windows—
Superior—for Doors—
Of Chambers as the Cedars—
Impregnable of eye—
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky—
Of Visitors—the fairest—
For Occupation—This—
The spreading of my narrow Hands
to gather Paradise—
Here is a poem of tension, of paradox. We have a sense of enclosure within this many-windowed house of cedar, but also of freedom immense as the sky.
The presentation of two Houses, capitalized, initially suggested to me distinct or even opposed nobility, families vying for power or dominance in a realm. There may be some truth in this perspective, as Dickinson seems to argue for the superiority of poetry to prose for ‘gathering Paradise’ into a finite form for the comprehension of finite minds. See Chesterton’s remarks at the beginning of this post.
And yet that word dwell—a word suggesting long continuance and concrete familiarity—draws us to that intimate place where one enacts daily life. This is a place for staying, for belonging, for feeling at home.
And ‘Possibility’ is ‘a fairer House than Prose.’ Fair is such a lovely and comprehensive word; it means beautiful, just, honorable, virtuous, noble. I think ‘just’ becomes the most important sense of the word, that to dwell in the House of Possibility is to open oneself to a truer, more comprehensive experience of reality.
For one thing, this House of Possibility, while enclosing the dweller, allows wide and numerous perspectives of the landscape. Depending on how you treat the ambiguous punctuation, it might be that the numerous windows are superior to doors for allowing such a view; alternatively, it may be that the house is also more numerous {superior} of doors, which not only enclose the dweller but open to invite visitors.
Do you sense the tension, the beauties of this paradox? They are to become more incredible still!
Within this 'House of Possibility' are ‘Chambers as the Cedars’; within these strictures is the freedom of open spaces reaching high as the noble and beautiful trees of Lebanon. The cedars likewise suggest strength, richness, beauty, endurance; again, this is a home for dwelling, for enacting all the intimacies of daily life, but it is not merely utilitarian: it accommodates the prosaic but does so beautifully; it accommodates our brief lives, but promises to accommodate many lives after; it is beautiful and timeless.
I am struck by the word merely in that last sentence. I think poetry encompasses a great deal of what prose does merely. I think of Chesterton again: ‘The aim of good prose is to mean what they say. The aim of good poetical words is to mean what they do not say,’ or more than what they say.
The teacher remarked that the word chambers might suggest private quarters, such as a bedroom, a closet, or even a bathroom; again we have the idea that Dickinson is describing a definite, finite, personal space.
And these chambers are a sanctum sanctorum; they are 'Impregnable of Eye.' And yet they are impregnable not only because of their sheltered depth, perhaps, but because they are an invisible realm seen only by the spirit.
There was also a suggestion made during class discussion that 'eye' might be read 'I.' It seems possible to me that this house, though surrounded by windowed walls, is greater than it might appear from outside; it may be that you can walk through room after room, and find a deeper one still—infinity with shape. And could this, then, be a reflection on Dickinson's poem, whose brevity belies the wisdom that might be delved from its short lines?
And what vaulted ceilings do those cedar walls uphold?—'Gambrels of the Sky.' I am reminded immediately of another favorite poem: 'The Philosopher's Garden' by John Oxenham.
I am not sure I can add to those beautiful sentiments, except to repeat: ‘It's somewhat cramped, but see how high! It reaches up to God's blue sky.’ And that is how I think of poetry, and of Emily Dickinson's poetry in particular. It's amazing how much can be said with so few, choice words.
I mean, look how many words I've typed, trying to mine all the jewels in Dickinson's fifty!
And there's more. :-)
Of visitors, the dweller has the fairest. Why the fairest? Why the superlative? Dickinson has a literary {as well as biographical} reputation for being insular and even elitest. Does she disdain lower company, or is it that only the fairest—the most beautiful, just, honorable, virtuous, noble—that have the desire or ability to enter this House of Possibility? It is, after all, an unsettling house, with its many windows, towering walls, deep rooms, and endlessly high roof; might not Prose be considered a safer, more conventional, place to stay?
Because visitors are transient 'dwellers' {that is, not all who enter the House live there} I wonder whether the dwellers are the poets, and the 'visitors' readers who must work hard {become the 'fairest'} in order to access the poetry {the House, and its many deep rooms}.
And what is it that occupies the dweller—and, may I say, the visitors—within this House? 'This' is the occupation—'This' capitalized and set alone in state between dashes. It is 'This' that we are doing right now—writing the poem, reading the poem; 'This' poem is the occupation, 'This' poem which is 'The spreading of my narrow Hands/ To gather Paradise—' Within the narrow scope of humanity we grasp at Glory; in a few lines we whisper of Heaven; invisible things are clearly seen, being understood by things that are made. {Romans 1:20}
And that final dash leaves everything open—another door leading into deeper rooms yet. We are not finished in the House of Possibility. We never will be.
• I’ve illustrated this post with a photograph of one of my favorite sculptures, The Cathedral by Auguste Rodin. I was reminded of the sculpture not only because of the obvious connection to ‘my narrow Hands’ and a shared sense of spirituality, but because, just as Rodin’s hands are a representation of a building {or idea}, I believe ‘The spreading of my narrow Hands’ is an alternate metaphor for that which is also represented by the cedar house with the sky for a roof: that is, the poetic 'Occupation' of giving shape to infinity. •
September 23, 2014