I learned to sight read. I think, because of that, words to me have form and substance and meaning as objects apart from their duties as agents and ministers of spoken language. It also leads to weird connections in my head. I’ve been reading a lot of Emily Dickinson’s correspondence lately. The volume containing the Master Letters (which, if you haven’t read them, you should, you really should; it will be quick and painless as there are only three of them) also included scale facsimiles of the originals. They aren’t exactly the real thing, but it’s kind of lovely to hold them in your hands and experience them (more or less) as she did.
So, that’s what I was doing. Holding them in my hands and reading them. And something jumped out at me, from the first letter. The spelling of Michelangelo’s name has now been pretty well standardized as one word. That wasn’t always so. Emily writes it Michael Angelo. But my eyes read Maya Angelou. Just one of those improbable connections my brain sometimes makes between words.
Anyway, you should read them. They are more like beautiful poem than letters. This is the first one.
Spring 1858
Dear Master
I am ill –
but grieving more
that you are ill, I
make my stronger hand
work long eno’ to tell
you – I thought perhaps
you were in Heaven,
and when you spoke
again, it seemed
quite sweet, and
wonderful, and surprised
me so – I wish that
you were well.
I would that all I
love, should be week no
more. The Violets are
by my side – the Robin
very near – and “Spring” –
they say, Who is she –
going by the door –
Indeed it is God’s house –
and these are gates
of Heaven, and to
and fro, the angels
go, with their sweet
postillions – I wish that
I were great, like Mr –
Michael Angelo, and
could paint for you.
You ask me what
my Flowers said –
then they were
disobedient – I gave
them messages –
They said what the
lips in the West, say,
when the sun goes
down, and so says
the Dawn –
Listen again, Master –
I did not tell you that
today had been the
Sabbath Day.
Each Sabbath on the
sea, makes me count
the Sabbaths, till we
meet on shore – and
whether the hills will
look as blue as the
sailors say –
I cannot talk
any more
tonight ,
for this pain
denies me –
How strong when weak
to recollect, and easy
quite, to love. Will you
tell me, please to tell
me, soon as you are
well –
red paper boat 