Yesterday I wrote on the use of the apostrophe in poetry to elide a vowel sound – particularly with the past tense ending, “-ed” – so that a line’s rhythm would flow with the meter of the rest of the poem. That discussion led me to examine Joyce Kilmer’s use of “prest” – instead of “pressed” or “press’d” – in his well-known poem “Trees.” I finished my post with this: “For now, I'll press on, and close with -- you guess'd it -- a pressing question: Did Emily Dickinson ever use the word ‘prest’ in any of her poems? You'll find out tomorrow!”
Well, “tomorrow” is today, so did Dickinson ever use “prest”? As a matter of fact, she did.
The word “press” numbers five definitions in the Dickinson lexicon (“prest” does not show as a separate entry), and she used the word in seven different poems: “press” in four poems, “pressed” in two, and “prest” in one. The single poem with “prest” is “’Twas the old road through pain” – and what a lovely and poignant poem it is – with possibly even a clever bit of humor.
Well, “tomorrow” is today, so did Dickinson ever use “prest”? As a matter of fact, she did.
The word “press” numbers five definitions in the Dickinson lexicon (“prest” does not show as a separate entry), and she used the word in seven different poems: “press” in four poems, “pressed” in two, and “prest” in one. The single poem with “prest” is “’Twas the old road through pain” – and what a lovely and poignant poem it is – with possibly even a clever bit of humor.
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The poem is a simple elegy for an unnamed woman, now in Heaven – hence too far from sight to hear the mourners’ “hoarse Good Night.” The greater portion of the poem recounts the woman’s journey through life, albeit an unhappy one (with “pain” and “thorn”) – and it is within those opening lines of the first stanza that there could be a bit of Dickinson drollery. She implies that the road to Heaven is the “unfrequented one,” soo…am I to understand that – where two paths diverge – the road not taken, descending to that other place, is the more congested one?
The second and third stanzas are touching as the speaker recounts a few simple details from the dead woman’s past. “Prest” shows up in line 8, “The little tracks – close prest –” And there is another feature of the poem that adds to its power – and that is the profusion of dashes bestrewn throughout the poem (LOL – how often do you get to use the word, “bestrewn”?).
There are forty-plus dashes among the twenty-two lines, and they serve to intensify the melancholy of the slow and deliberate meter of the poem. It is surely meant to be read slowly, thoughtfully, if not somberly – and the dashes force upon the reader a doleful pace. As a result, they add to the mood created by such words as old, pain, stops, rested, “not so swift,” slow (repeated twice), weary, stopped, and worn.
Check out the seven lines of the second stanza too. Each begins with a “th” sound as the speaker encapsulates the dearly departed’s life as if a tour guide were ticking off the core points of her quotidian journey.
Then, abruptly, two exclamations: “Wait! Look!” The speaker has discovered a book – a diary? – with a dog-eared corner on a page, a page of love. Hmm, the significance of “turned back” in that suddenly seems to dilate. I’m reminded of more Frost, the penultimate line from “Out, out –”: “No more to build on there.”
The entire poem is, indeed, a touching lamentation, and – if you’ll indulge with a bit of silly wordplay – I’m quite imprest.
The second and third stanzas are touching as the speaker recounts a few simple details from the dead woman’s past. “Prest” shows up in line 8, “The little tracks – close prest –” And there is another feature of the poem that adds to its power – and that is the profusion of dashes bestrewn throughout the poem (LOL – how often do you get to use the word, “bestrewn”?).
There are forty-plus dashes among the twenty-two lines, and they serve to intensify the melancholy of the slow and deliberate meter of the poem. It is surely meant to be read slowly, thoughtfully, if not somberly – and the dashes force upon the reader a doleful pace. As a result, they add to the mood created by such words as old, pain, stops, rested, “not so swift,” slow (repeated twice), weary, stopped, and worn.
Check out the seven lines of the second stanza too. Each begins with a “th” sound as the speaker encapsulates the dearly departed’s life as if a tour guide were ticking off the core points of her quotidian journey.
Then, abruptly, two exclamations: “Wait! Look!” The speaker has discovered a book – a diary? – with a dog-eared corner on a page, a page of love. Hmm, the significance of “turned back” in that suddenly seems to dilate. I’m reminded of more Frost, the penultimate line from “Out, out –”: “No more to build on there.”
The entire poem is, indeed, a touching lamentation, and – if you’ll indulge with a bit of silly wordplay – I’m quite imprest.
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