Writing on Winter Afternoons
On some days, I love reading Emily Dickinson. But I have to
be in a “mood” to read her. One of my favorite poems of hers is “A certain
Slant of light.” Cold, empty winter afternoons remind me of this poem, and
today is one such day. Enjoy:
Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 1886
There’s a certain
Slant of light,
Winter
Afternoons –
That oppresses,
like the Heft
Of Cathedral
Tunes –
Heavenly Hurt, it
gives us –
We can find no
scar,
But internal
difference,
Where the
Meanings, are –
None may teach
it – Any –
‘Tis the Seal
Despair –
An imperial
affliction
Sent us of the
Air –
When it comes,
the Landscape listens –
Shadows – hold
their breath –
When it goes,
‘tis like the Distance
On the look of
Death –
I used to read this poem to my students when I taught
American Literature. I use the word “read” instead of “teach” because—like Emily
said—“None may teach it.” The poem is not a story. It is a feeling, a moment,
an impression that comes when the winter seeps into one’s soul when the angled
rays of the sun streams though a cold pane, casting crooked rectangles on the
floor.
That moment forces my thoughts to freeze, almost as if I’ve
been stunned. It comes from nowhere and leaves without warning, taking
something of me with it, leaving a hollow space—at least for a while.
What good can a poem like that, or a feeling like that do
for a writer? It fills her with “mood,” “setting,” “feelings,” and “ideas”—not
the “story” of a book but the depth of a book. I welcome those moments, the
ones that steal in like a thief, take what is theirs, and leave me with
literary riches.