Fixated on fashioning life with unliving things, He falls in love with Whimsy, codifies her, imbues her With the stench of personality that he can sleep with Without sleep cocking her to unconsciousness. Rummage, rummage the trash heaps, The garbage bins, the dumps, And rotting flow of swill and sewage— Whimsy takes her ungodly shape: Big cardboard box head Empty except for butt Of chamber pot for mouth. Needle-nose pliers for a snout. Cash register $ $ for eyes. Short stature in height But makes up for it in width. Mold-speckled cabbage leaves cover Her big cardboard box head. Broken wine bottles about her neck. Her huge tree-stump legs mock The act of walking. Flea collar of rabid dog around each wrist. Barrel-drum arms that rub against Shag fecal-smattered carpet glued Against her sides. Faking a dress, Monstrous cum-stained sheets swaddle Her middle region— More an equator than a waist— Drooping down over the stumps, Flowing with blood and urine onto the ground. Dr. Frankenstink loves his Whimsy, Locks her in his arms, croons to her A misbegotten lullaby that reminds him Of his murdered fiancée, after her last abortion.
I am a writer—primarily a poet, songwriter, and essayist—and I feel an obligation to render the written word as honestly as I am able. For more than six decades, I have lived with words: reading them, studying them, arranging them, revising them, and trying to discover through them what I really think and feel.
From Conestoga to Airplane
The physical means by which I write have changed dramatically over those decades—from pencils and ink pens, to typewriters, to computers with word-processing systems. Now I have another tool available to me: artificial intelligence (AI). It is, in a sense, the leap from the horse-drawn conestoga to the jet-propelled airplane.
That leap raises an obvious question for a writer: if I use AI to help me compose, am I still the writer? My answer is yes—but only if I remain responsible for the writing.
AI can now produce remarkably competent poems, songs, essays, summaries, and arguments, organizing information almost instantly in prose that sometimes sounds more polished than an experienced human writer.
However, AI’s capabilities invite both enthusiasm and suspicion. Some see it as a marvelous new instrument; others as a threat to human creativity; still others reject it outright. I regard it simply as a tool, as I once regarded the pencil, the typewriter, and the word processor.
A Writer’s Responsibility
Because AI is now so competent at producing written material, readers may wonder whether a writer simply hands the work to a machine and steps aside. I do not. I remain responsible for every text that appears under my name.
When I moved from typewriter to word processor, it never occurred to me that I owed anyone an explanation for use of that technology. A typewriter did not write my essay; a word processor did not write my poem.
These instruments simply let me put thoughts into a form that could be preserved, revised, and shared. AI is different because the machine itself can generate language—which is exactly why anxiety about authorship is understandable. But what genuine writer would take a machine’s output, unexamined, and call it his or her own?
Here is what I actually do. I give an AI system—Grok, ChatGPT, Gemini, Claude, Perplexity—a list of requirements, along with a sample of my own writing, instruct it to work in my tone and voice to produce a preliminary draft. Then my real work begins.
(Following this essay, I have supplied an Appendix with a list of requirements that I give AI to generate my first draft of a commentary on a poem, Emily Dickinson’s and others’. For each new poem, I simply change out the title and other pertinent details.)
After my AI buddy generates the draft, I go through it word by word: checking facts, cutting overreach, replacing words that do not sound like me, reordering paragraphs, adding what only my own experience could supply, sharpening arguments, softening claims the evidence does not support.
Above all, I listen for my own voice—and because AI is trained toward an establishment sensibility that I do not always share, I frequently rewrite passages simply to register my own skepticism or disagreement. AI generates a rough draft; I polish it, exactly as I once polished my own first drafts. That distinction is everything.
Although I supply a sample of my original writing, AI is not always capable of reflecting my tone, style, and voice, which gives me plenty of work to do to make sure the piece sounds like me.
From Pencil to AI
A pencil does not think. Neither does a typewriter, nor a word processor in any human sense—yet each changed a writer’s relationship to composition. Revision meant erasing with a pencil, retyping with a typewriter, and became dramatically easier with a word processor. No one ever concluded that the typewriter or word processor had become the author.
AI is a more significant leap because it has the ability to generate language in sentences. But the fundamental question does not change: who is directing the tool, and who answers for the result? For me, the answer is abundantly clear: I do.
The practical advantage is real. The rough draft—research, brainstorming, deciding what belongs, finding a way into the subject—is usually the most time-consuming stage in composition, and much of it follows patterns AI can help accelerate.
But writing is more than organization. The decisive creative work happens in revision, when an unexpected association leads somewhere better, or a sentence reveals something I had not consciously understood when I began. AI can supply form. The writer has to shape the content so form and content align. That is where authorship lives.
The AI-Detector Problem
I first encountered the charge of posting an AI-generated text while writing for the now-defunct HubPages. The article in question, which after the accusation, I revised multiple times but never satisfying the editors, now resides on my personal literary website: “Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s ‘The Queen’s Last Ride’.” The experience was instructive.
Since then, I have submitted many older essays—works written years before I ever heard of ChatGPT or similar systems—to AI detectors. The results have been astonishingly inconsistent. Some detectors have claimed that texts written entirely by me were partly or even overwhelmingly AI-generated. Scores have ranged from very low percentages to extraordinarily high ones.
One detector explained its verdict by pointing to nearly perfect grammar and clear organization. I could hardly object to those as descriptions of my writing; they represent what sixty years of practice, two master’s degrees, a PhD, and three publications in The Explicator ought to produce. It turns out this inconsistency is not just my experience—it is well documented.
A comparison of sixteen commercial AI-text detectors found meaningful differences in accuracy, decisiveness, and false-positive rates between tools evaluating the same essays [1]. OpenAI’s own classifier, before it was shut down for unreliability, mislabeled human-written text as AI-generated roughly 9 percent of the time [2].
Independent 2025–2026 testing has found some detectors holding false-positive rates near or below 1 percent on longer passages, while open-source and free tools have flagged anywhere from 30 to 69 percent of genuinely human writing [3].
The bias runs deeper for some writers than others: research on non-native English essays has found false-positive rates as high as 61 percent, apparently because detectors read simpler, more standardized sentence structure as “machine-like” [4][5].
Formal, technically precise, or highly organized human prose—medical writing, legal writing, and, I would add, a lifetime of disciplined essay writing—triggers false positives at elevated rates for the very same reason.
None of this means detection is worthless. It means a percentage is not a witness. A score cannot know who sat at the desk, who revised a poem twenty times, or who spent three hours on a single paragraph because one word carried a precise shade of meaning. The machine sees the text. The writer lived the life behind it.
The Difference Between Generating and Creating
This distinction matters most in poetry. A poem is not merely a string of grammatically acceptable sentences; it depends on memory, emotional association, rhythm, silence, irony, and an individual response to lived experience. AI can imitate poetic language extraordinarily well—rime, meter, metaphor, imagery, even the surface style of a particular poet. But imitation is not experience.
When I write about something that has affected me, it exists inside a history that belongs to me alone: memories, beliefs, relationships, disappointments, and discoveries accumulate over a lifetime.
My own literary site Linda’s Literary Home reflects that web of connection—poems and songs alongside literary studies and a room devoted to my spiritual life and the teachings of Paramahansa Yogananda, “Father of Yoga in the West.” AI can help me articulate those connections. It cannot possess them for me.
How I Maintain Control
I treat AI as a tool. I supply the requirements, the subject, the sample of my own writing, the purpose; I decide what needs evidence, evaluate every suggestion, and make the final call—which means I can never say “the AI wrote it” when something is wrong. If a text is published under my name, it is mine: the errors, the foolishness, and the insight alike.
The comparison I keep returning to is the calculator and the mathematician. A calculator performs an operation faster than a human can, but it does not decide which problem is worth solving or what the answer means. AI can manipulate language rapidly. The writer still has to decide what deserves to be said.
The Tool, the Fool, and the Luddite
Three stances are possible regarding a technological advancement such as AI: the fool hands the whole task to the machine and claims the result as entirely original, mistaking convenience for creativity. The Luddite rejects the tool altogether, mistaking resistance for the preservation of human creativity. The sensible writer takes a third position: AI as a tool—useful, powerful, limited, and subordinate.
That state of affairs does not mean accepting whatever it produces; the more powerful the tool, the more judgment its use demands. A chainsaw is useful, but no one hands it to a child and walks away. A camera does not make someone a photographer, nor a grand piano concert pianist. AI does not make someone a writer. The human being remains responsible for knowing what he or she wants to say.
Calmly Active and Actively Calm
Paramahansa Yogananda taught the principle of being “calmly active and actively calm”—staying centered in inner stillness while living dynamically and purposefully in the world [6]. I find that principle exactly suited to working with AI.
The writer should be active: directing the process, questioning, revising, deciding. But the writer should also be calm—no need to fear a new technology, and no need to worship it either. The screen is outward. The AI system is outward. The intention behind the words is inward, and that is what matters.
In my essays on Emily Dickinson poems, I have written about her speakers’ habit of placing inner evidential integrity above public display. The same idea applies here. My obligation is not to satisfy a detector or perform “humanness” for an algorithm. It is to tell the truth as honestly as I am able. Outer methods change; inner responsibility does not.
I Remain the Writer
I have no wish to return to a world where the only legitimate instrument is a pencil, pen, or typewriter; I have lived through too many technological revolutions to think creative integrity depends on refusing new tools. The question was never whether to use AI, only how.
If I tell a system to write an essay, accept whatever comes back, verify nothing, and sign my name—I have surrendered authorship. But if I bring my subject, my experience, my research, my questions, and my decades of practice to the process, and use AI to help organize, draft, question, or polish—the technology is serving me as the writer. That is how I use it.
I do not expect AI to replace the writer any more than I expect my word processor to do such. I expect it to help me do what I have wanted to do for sixty years: put words together in the best way I can. The tools have changed; the writer has not.
I am still the one who decides what I believe, chooses the subject, determines what matters, and asks of every sentence, “Is that really what I mean?” AI may supply a draft, a structure, even an unexpected phrase. But it does not have my memories, my relationships, my spiritual journey, or my responsibility to the reader.
Those features remain mine—and as long as I stay awake, attentive, and responsible for every word that bears my name, I see no contradiction between embracing the tool and keeping the writer’s oldest obligation: to seek, as honestly as possible, the right words for what is true.
Compose an essay commentary on Emily Dickinson’s “Some Rainbow – coming from the Fair!” adhering to the following list of requirements for the essay:
Place the following Title:Emily Dickinson’s “Some Rainbow – coming from the Fair!”
To establish style and tone, use the sample of my writing on Emily Dickinson’s “There is another sky” which follows this set of instructions. VERY IMPORTANT THAT YOU FOLLOW THIS INSTRUCTION.
Be sure to place the entire text of the poem in the introduction and the stanzas (or movements) in the commentary sections.
Do not report on the type of poem, its rhythmic meter, or its rime scheme.
Do not italicize the text of the poem in either the introduction or the commentary.
Do not use Wikipedia or any left-leaning political, or other unreliable sources.
Do not announce what the commentary or paragraph is going to do; for example “This commentary will explain the poem’s structure . . . ”; just do it.
Always refer the poet as “the speaker,” not by the poet’s name.
Keep all headings EXACTLY as presented: Introduction and Text of “Some Rainbow – coming from the Fair!” and Commentary on “Some Rainbow – coming from the Fair!”
Where possible use a quotation showing a concept from the teachings of Paramahansa Yogananda, with a link to the source on the site at https://yogananda.org. You can also find many of Paramahansa Yogananda’s writings on Internet Archive https://archive.org/ Always use his full title and name Paramahansa Yogananda when mentioning the great Guru.
Use only official Self-Realization Fellowship / Yogananda.org sources for quotations or teachings attributed to Paramahansa Yogananda. Do not use Ananda, Wikiquote, AZQuotes, Goodreads, or other secondary quotation websites.
When alluding to a Paramahansa Yogananda quoted concept, always use present tense: Paramahansa Yogananda explains; not Paramahansa Yogananda explained.
Also where possible, offer a quotation showing a concept from my earlier commentaries on Dickinson’s poems from my literary website Linda’s Literary Home, at https://lindas-literary-home.com/2026/02/05/life-sketch-of-emily-dickinson/ . When referring to a quoted concept from my literary website, use the following introduction, “In myearlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed . . . .”
Instead of this construction —“In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed how the speaker privileges inner evidence over public display” —use this one, for example, “In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s habit of privileging inner evidence over public display.” That is, eliminate the awkward use of “how,” by focusing on the specific subject.
Instead of the term “meditation” for contemplation on literary things, use the phrase “contemplative musing.”
Limit each paragraph to 50 words.
Always spell “rhyme” using the original, more accurate spelling “rime.”
Please do not give me a lot text explaining what you are going to do; just do it. If you cannot follow these instructions exactly, let me know and I’ll find another program that can. Thank you! Now begin!
EMPLOY THE EXACT STYLE AND TONE ESTABLISHED IN THIS SAMPLE OF MY WRITING:
Emily Dickinson’s “There is another sky”
Emily Dickinson’s “There is another sky” reveals the speaker’s confidence in her creation of a world of beauty that will exist in perpetuity. She is envisioning a world beyond the physical level of existence, where permanence prevails in things of beauty.
Introduction with Text of “There is another sky”
In Emily Dickinson’s “There is another sky,” the speaker of the poem is previewing her intention to establish a world where the pairs of opposites do not obstruct the lives of the inhabitants.
Such beloved features and qualities of life, such as beauty, peace, harmony, balance, and love will hold sway uninterrupted by pesky things like change and disfigurement in her newly created “garden.” On a second note, she is also inviting her brother to enter her new garden that exists under a different sky so that he too may enjoy the divinely fragranced atmosphere of her new creation.
On the literal level, the poet is creating a speaker who is announcing her audacious plan to create a brand new world with her poetry. It will be such a special place so other-worldly that nothing unpleasant that exists in earthly reality will exist there.
Because everything she creates will be based on her imagination and intuition, she can fashion her “garden” to grow anything she finds feasible. That she anticipates no arrival of “frost,’ she can guarantee that flowers will not “fade.” Also leaves will be able to remain “ever green.”
Posing as a invitation, Dickinson’s little drama serves as a clever ruse to persuade her brother to come and experience her poetry. By promising him a whole new, different world, she no doubt hopes he will be more likely to take her up on her offer.
There is another sky
There is another sky, Ever serene and fair, And there is another sunshine, Though it be darkness there; Never mind faded forests, Austin, Never mind silent fields – Here is a little forest, Whose leaf is ever green; Here is a brighter garden, Where not a frost has been; In its unfading flowers I hear the bright bee hum: Prithee, my brother, Into my garden come!
Reading of “There is another sky”
Commentary on “There is another sky”
Emily Dickinson’s “There is another sky” reveals an attitude dramatized in the Shakespeare sonnets: the poet’s confidence in her creation of a world of beauty that will last forever.
The poem is a literal invitation from the poet to her brother Austin to read her poetry, where she is erecting a new place to exist, a beautiful garden free of the decay that literal gardens must undergo.
First Quatrain: Physical Sky vs Metaphysical Sky
There is another sky, Ever serene and fair, And there is another sunshine, Though it be darkness there;
In the first quatrain, the speaker begins by alerting readers that in addition to the “sky” and “sunshine” that already experience on the earthly level, there exist a different sky and a different sunshine.
The other sky about which the speaker is declaiming is always “serene and fair. Thus, no thunder storms or dark clouds intrude into this new sky’s space. The beauty and calmness of a clear blue sky offer an inviting and intriguing possibility.
The speaker then announces the existence of “another sunshine.” But this sunshine seems to have the magic and delicious power to shining even through the darkness. This claim is the first flag that the speaker will be referring to a mystical or metaphysical place that only the soul can perceive.
Behind the darkness of closed eyes, the only “sunshine” or light that can be seen is that of the spiritual eye. Although the speaker cannot guarantee that her entire audience will be able to see such “sunshine,” she is sure that on a mental level they can imagine such a heavenly place.
Second Quatrain: No Fading in the Metaphysical Universe
Never mind faded forests, Austin, Never mind silent fields – Here is a little forest, Whose leaf is ever green;
The speaker then directly addresses someone, admonishing him to pay no attention to “faded forests.” She then the addresses the individual by name, “Austin. ” Austin is the name of Dickinson’s brother. She then admonishes Austin to ignore the “silent fields.”
The reason that Austin should ignore those faded forests and silent fields is that in this place to which she is inviting him, the “little forest” presents leaves that remain perpetually green. And the fields will remain perpetually filled with fruitful crops, never having to lie fallow.
While dropping hints throughout, he speaker remains illusive regarding the whereabouts of this place where the sky, the sun, forests and fields, and leaves all behave differently from that of the physical universe that humanity must experience on the earthly plane.
Sestet: Invitation to the Metaphysical Garden
Here is a brighter garden, Where not a frost has been; In its unfading flowers I hear the bright bee hum: Prithee, my brother, Into my garden come!
The speaker now offers some further description of this new place with a new sky and new sun; she then states that that place is “a brighter garden.” As earthly gardens are bright, mystical or metaphysical gardens remain even brighter.
In the metaphysical garden, there is never a fear of “frost” that kills earthly plants with its sting. Flowers will not fade because of frost or from simply aging. The magic of her garden will guarantee that the beauty of the flowers will bloom forth in perpetuity.
Because of the ability of the flowers to remain “unfading,” bees will always be able to partake of their nectar any time they choose. Thus, the speaker avers that she can “hear the bright bee hum.”
The bright bee is, no doubt, brighter than the ordinary, earthly, literal bee. And because of the permanence of her newly created metaphysical garden, she can listen to the pleasant hum any time she wishes.
In the final couplet, the speaker sets forth the clear invitation to her brother, virtually begging him to come into her garden. She employs the archaic expression “[p]rithee” (conflation of “pray thee”) to emphasize her desire that he take her up on her offer to visit her “garden.”
On the literal level, the poet has created a speaker who extends an invitation to the poet’s brother to read her poems. She has offered an alluring set of reasons to try to capture the brother’s imagination and interest.
And to her other readers, the poet has created a speaker to extend that same invitation, as she hopes the notion of a new, permanent, created world will capture their imaginations also.
Dickinson Riddles
Emily Dickinson’s American-Innovative sonnet “There is another sky” is one of the poet’s many riddles. Her speaker never states directly that the garden is her poetry, but still, she is inviting her brother in to read her poems.
The speaker continues to imply throughout the sonnet that she has constructed a whole new world, where things can live unmolested by the irritants that exist on the physical plane of life. The sky can remain “serene and fair”–no storms, tornadoes, hurricanes, heavy rainstorms that frighten and damage.
And the sunshine can present itself even through the darkness. Forests never fade and die out, and the fields remain always bursting with life; they never lie fallow or turn to dust as on the real, earthy plane–that literal world.
The trees can enjoy wearing green leaves and never have to drop them after they turn all brown or rusty. The speaker is privy to all these utopian-sounding acts because she has created it.
And like the master writer of the Shakespeare sonnets, Dickinson’s speaker knows that she has fashioned out of crude, earthly nature an art that will provide pleasure in perpetuity to the minds and hearts of those who have the ability to imagine and intuit along with her.
This speaker further demonstrates a certain level of cheek and courage by inviting her own brother into her creation. While she no doubt quietly wonders if he will be as impressed as she is, she shows a certain level of confidence by offering such an invitation.
Emily Dickinson’s “Some Rainbow – coming from the Fair!”
Introductory summary about 20 words in complete sentences
Introduction and Text of “Some Rainbow – coming from the Fair!”
approximately 100 words
Some Rainbow – coming from the Fair!
Some Rainbow – coming from the Fair!
Some Vision of the World Cashmere –
I confidently see!
Or else a Peacock’s purple Train
Feather by feather – on the plain
Fritters itself away!
The dreamy Butterflies bestir!
Lethargic pools resume the whir
Of last year’s sundered tune!
From some old Fortress on the sun
Baronial Bees – march – one by one –
In murmuring platoon!
The Robins stand as thick today
As flakes of snow stood yesterday –
On fence – and Roof – and Twig!
The Orchis binds her feather on
For her old lover – Don the Sun!
Revisiting the Bog!
Without Commander! Countless! Still!
The Regiments of Wood and Hill
In bright detachment stand!
Behold! Whose Multitudes are these?
The children of whose turbaned seas –
Or what Circassian Land?
Commentary on “Some Rainbow – coming from the Fair!”
approximately 20 words in complete sentences
First Stanza: “Some Rainbow – coming from the Fair!”
Image: Emily Dickinson – Amherst College – Daguerrotype of the poet at age 17, circa 1847 – likely the only authentic, extant likeness of the poet
Emily Dickinson’s “‘Sown in dishonor’!”
Emily Dickinson’s “‘Sown in dishonor’!” reveals the speaker’s firm suspicion that the human form does not begin in shame or decay. She asserts its inherent fineness with quiet certainty. She is likely aware of the decadent original of the material level of existence, but her deep faith that that level derives from Spirit keeps her from dishonoring any extant form.
Introduction and Text of “‘Sown in dishonor’!”
In Emily Dickinson’s “‘Sown in dishonor’!,” the speaker of the poem addresses a scriptural claim about the body’s origin. She questions the notion of dishonor attached to physical existence and finds the idea itself doubtful.
The speaker wonders aloud whether such dishonor can truly exist. She declares that if she possessed even half the excellence of that form, she would remain oblivious to others. Her focus rests on inner worth rather than external judgment.
On a second note, she turns to the companion claim of corruption. She slows the assertion at once and finds the Apostle’s account somewhat misaligned with deeper, spiritual truth. The biblical narrative merely records certain events without settling the matter of the body’s true nature.
“Sown in dishonor”!
“Sown in dishonor”! Ah! Indeed! May this “dishonor” be? If I were half so fine myself I’d notice nobody!
“Sown In corruption”! Not so fast! Apostle is askew! Corinthians I. 15. narrates A Circumstance or two!
Commentary on “‘Sown in dishonor’!”
Emily Dickinson’s “‘Sown in dishonor’!” reveals the speaker’s confidence in the body’s essential dignity. She refuses to accept suggestions of initial shame or decay.
First Stanza: “‘Sown in dishonor’!”
“Sown in dishonor”! Ah! Indeed! May this “dishonor” be? If I were half so fine myself I’d notice nobody!
In the first stanza, the speaker echoes the scriptural phrase with a sharp note of surprise. She registers the claim of dishonor and then questions its validity at once. The word itself becomes doubtful under her scrutiny. She asks whether such dishonor can truly apply. Her tone carries quiet defiance rather than acceptance. The query opens space for a different understanding of the physical form.
The speaker then offers a personal measure of worth. If she possessed even half the excellence that she attributes to that form, she would remain unaware of surrounding opinions. Outer judgments would lose all force.
This stance privileges inner evidence over public valuation. In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s habit of challenging the value of outer awareness when contrasted to inner realization. The same exercise appears here with calm assurance.
Paramahansa Yogananda explains that the soul is immortal and is not slain when the body is killed. The physical form therefore cannot begin in true dishonor, for it houses an eternal essence. The Dickinsonian speaker’s confidence rests on that same recognition of inherent fineness.
Second Stanza: “‘Sown In corruption’!”
“Sown In corruption”! Not so fast! Apostle is askew!
In the second stanza the speaker addresses the companion claim of corruption. She halts the assertion immediately with a firm command. The pace of acceptance must slow before any final judgment is reached. She finds the Apostle’s position again misaligned with deeper reality. The statement stands askew rather than true. Her correction arrives without hesitation or apology.
The speaker then notes that the cited chapter simply narrates certain events. It records a circumstance or two without exhausting the full truth of the body’s nature. The narrative remains partial rather than conclusive.
This measured response continues the speaker’s preference for direct inner insight. Contemplative musing on the scriptural text leads her to reject any notion of initial decay. The form itself carries no such stain.
Paramahansa Yogananda explains that man is essentially of incorporeal nature and that the soul outlasts every physical change. The Dickinsonian speaker’s refusal of corruption aligns with that enduring spiritual identity. Her quiet correction upholds the body’s deeper dignity.
She sulks between rows where weeds Grow wild as children, where she talks To clods, shiftless and dusty. Men gave her a lot of bull and she loved It for the utter cow in her. Between Finger and thumb, she squirms live bait At the edge of her words, her water.
Grapes and memories wet and sweet Pooled under her tongue that day He made her mouth a target for the grapes He threw. She tasted his laugh in the juice And tangled with his love, she swallowed With the skin and seeds. She banked off on Maddening and split around midnight. Between broken poems are spaces Where poets keep their lovers—
Spaces where they slumber— The knotty thoughts they sleep with. The man with the axe hacked through The underbrush of what she had written. His sneers posted keep off private property Signs on a fence he erected around words That all these years she thought belonged To everyone. The slash marks he cut Across her voice will grow scars, but the hearts Of poems she wrote for him will bleed forever.
Speaking dirt language, she will sway With their love like a cornfield waving Its tassels. As her poems sting his ears, He will shuck them off easy to forget as corn silk.
In Emily Dickinson’s “Papa above!” the speaker petitions the Heavenly Father with a startlingly playful yet deeply serious request for eternal sanctuary. The speaker adopts a vulnerable persona to dramatize the soul’s fight for divine rescue from the mortal vicissitudes of earthly life.
Introduction and Text of “Papa above!”
In Emily Dickinson’s “Papa above!”, the speaker creates a bold spiritual petition asking for divine shelter from mortal destruction. The speaker adopts the perspective of a small, helpless creature to appeal directly to the Heavenly Father for safe passage into the spiritual realm.
Using animal imagery, the speaker contrasts the brutality of earthly survival with the peaceful eternity of heaven. The poem blends childlike innocence with profound spiritual yearning, urging the Divine to grant ultimate refuge to even the humblest life.
On a literal level, the speaker portrays a small rodent overtaken by a predator, transforming a scene of earthly peril into a plea for heavenly grace. The poem imagines a celestial paradise wherein eternal peace replaces the temporal struggles of physical existence.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s penchant for inner discovery over outward reward. Here, the speaker presents a private, contemplative musing on the soul’s journey beyond earthly suffering.
Papa above!
Papa above! Regard a Mouse O’erpowered by the Cat! Reserve within thy kingdom A “Mansion” for the Rat!
Snug in seraphic Cupboards To nibble all the day, While unsuspecting Cycles Wheel solemnly away!
Commentary on “Papa above!”
Emily Dickinson’s “Papa above!” presents a satirical yet poignant prayer asking the Divine Reality for eternal sanctuary beyond earthly trials and tribulations.
First Stanza: “Papa above!”
Papa above! Regard a Mouse O’erpowered by the Cat! Reserve within thy kingdom A “Mansion” for the Rat!
The speaker opens with a direct, familiar address to the Creator, calling upon Him as “Papa above!” This playful intimacy establishes a bold tone that bridges the finite creature with the infinite Father.
By framing the speaker as a “Mouse / O’erpowered by the Cat!,” the poem dramatizes the inherent vulnerability of mortal life. Earthly existence remains fraught with constant struggle against overwhelming predatory forces.
Paramahansa Yogananda explains, “All will come out right in the end, for God has hidden His goodness behind the superficiality of the paradoxes of mortal experiences”.
The speaker then requests a reserved “Mansion” for the lowly creature, asserting that even the humblest soul deserves celestial shelter. The term “Mansion” echoes biblical promises while cheekily elevating the lowly rodent.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s penchant for subverting traditional theological formality through bold wit. The speaker insists that divine mercy must extend to all earthly suffering.
Second Stanza: “Snug in seraphic Cupboards”
Snug in seraphic Cupboards To nibble all the day, While unsuspecting Cycles Wheel solemnly away!
The second stanza envisions a whimsical heavenly reward where the creature resides safely inside “seraphic Cupboards.” Here, perpetual abundance replaces the desperate struggle for survival found on the physical plane. To “nibble all the day” represents uninterrupted contentment and bliss. In this heavenly refuge, the soul enjoys freedom from fear and predatory destruction.
Paramahansa Yogananda has promised his devotees through his teachings, “You shall have safety forever, not only for yourself, but for all those loved ones who have been entrusted to your care by our Lord and Father.”
The final lines contrast this eternal comfort with the temporal world, where cosmic time passes as “unsuspecting Cycles / Wheel solemnly away!” Physical time rolls onward, but the saved creature rests untouched by mortality.
Through this contemplative musing, the speaker demonstrates that true salvation lies in transcending time’s relentless wheel to rest forever in the Divine Presence.
“Homer Clapp” is the third epitaph in the series which began with “Aner Clute.” Homer is a pitiful character, who feels sorry for himself because of the way he was treated by Aner Clute.
Introduction and Text of “Homer Clapp”
In Edgar Lee Masters’ epitaph titled “Homer Clapp” from Masters’ American classic Spoon River Anthology, the character laments an existence which resulted in his considering himself one of “Life’s fools.”
Masters’ epitaph “Homer Clapp” is the third in the series beginning with “Aner Clute” and followed by “Lucius Atherton“; Homer is a sorry character, who complains that he was played for fool by Aner Clute.
Homer Clapp
Often Aner Clute at the gate Refused me the parting kiss, Saying we should be engaged before that; And just with a distant clasp of the hand She bade me good-night, as I brought her home From the skating rink or the revival. No sooner did my departing footsteps die away Than Lucius Atherton, (So I learned when Aner went to Peoria) Stole in at her window, or took her riding Behind his spanking team of bays Into the country. The shock of it made me settle down, And I put all the money I got from my father’s estate Into the canning factory, to get the job Of head accountant, and lost it all. And then I knew I was one of Life’s fools, Whom only death would treat as the equal Of other men, making me feel like a man.
Commentary on “Homer Clapp”
The third epitaph in the series “Homer Clapp” begins with “Aner Clute” followed by “Lucius Atherton.” Homer is a pitiful character, who feels sorry for himself because of how he was treated by Aner Clute.
First Movement: A Ridiculous Spectacle
Often Aner Clute at the gate Refused me the parting kiss, Saying we should be engaged before that; And just with a distant clasp of the hand She bade me good-night, as I brought her home From the skating rink or the revival.
The character “Homer Clapp” is sad man, whose association with Aner Clute, the prostitute, left him degraded and beaten. Aner had claimed that she began her life as a hooker because of being rebuffed by Lucius Atherton.
Later, however, Aner recants her story and claims ridiculously that she started living the life because of the way society views prostitutes—kind of like the way society views a boy who steals apples from a grocery store.
Homer commences his pathetic story “at the gate” with Aner Clute refusing to kiss him goodnight. She always refused to give him a good-bye kiss after he had taken her on a date either to “the skating rink” or “the revival.”
Aner would extend to him only a “distant clasp of the hand,” remarking that before she would permit him to kiss her, they would have to have become “engaged” to be married. This ridiculous spectacle shows clearly Aner’s disingenuous nature and dramatizes her behavior which is full of deceit, making her resemble so many of the other dissembling Spoon River characters.
Second Movement: Town Gossip
No sooner did my departing footsteps die away Than Lucius Atherton, (So I learned when Aner went to Peoria) Stole in at her window, or took her riding Behind his spanking team of bays Into the country.
Homer then appears to be providing town gossip as he claims that after he had left Aner at the gate, Lucius Atherton came sneaking in at Aner’s window. The two then went about with “her riding / Behind his spanking team of bays.”
The window sneaking sounds like an over-dramatic claim. It remains somewhat vague and a shaky notion that Lucius would need to sneak in to take Aner for a ride. However, Homer does report that he found out about Aner’s deceptive behavior only after she had relocated to Peoria. The timeline seems to impart the notion that Aner had actually moved to Peoria for the purpose of becoming a prostitute.
Aner, however, had concocted her narrative about being jilted by Atherton before she moved from Spoon River. Still, it seems that Homer had heard about this claim of Aner’s only after she had left Spoon River for Peoria.
Homer’s bit of gossip that Atherton owned “a spanking team of bays” might hint that Atherton had, in fact, been considered a “rich man” by Aner and other Spoon River residents who were less well off than Atherton was.
Third Movement: No Kiss Until Engaged
The shock of it made me settle down, And I put all the money I got from my father’s estate Into the canning factory, to get the job Of head accountant, and lost it all.
Homer’s story turns out to be that because of Aner’s deception of dating Homer while leading him on and demanding that they be engaged before a kiss, and at the same time fooling around with Lucius, Homer experienced “shock.”
That shock caused Homer to sink his inheritance into the canning factory. and after placing all that money into the canning factory in order “to get the job / Of head accountant,” Homer “lost it all.”
Apparently, Homer lost his job along with his money as well as any chance for marital happiness. However, Homer remains quite vague at this point and does not make clear what he means when he says he lost “it all.”
Fourth Movement: Just a Fool
And then I knew I was one of Life’s fools, Whom only death would treat as the equal Of other men, making me feel like a man.
Homer complains that his experiences in life, especially the Aner situation and loss of his money have convinced him that “[he] was one of Life’s fools.” Homer considers himself the type of fool that, “only death would treat as the equal / Of other men.”
Therefore, because death will come to all men equally, Homer can “feel like a man,” with the knowledge that death would definitely arrive for him just as it will do for all other men.
Edgar Lee Masters’ speaker in “Aner Clute” compares her choosing “the life” to a boy stealing an apple from a grocery store.
Introduction and Text of “Aner Clute”
In Edgar Lee Masters’ “Aner Clute,” from Spoon River Anthology, the speaker is a prostitute, who blames others for her own life choices, as many of the Spoon River soliloquists are wont to do.
The bulk of Aner Clute’s drama plays out in her comparison of her choosing “the life” to a boy stealing an apple from a grocery store. Like many other Spoon River speakers, Miss Clute dabbles in a ridiculous fantasy designed solely to relieve her of her own guilty life choices.
Aner Clute
Over and over they used to ask me, While buying the wine or the beer, In Peoria first, and later in Chicago, Denver, Frisco, New York, wherever I lived, How I happened to lead the life, And what was the start of it. Well, I told them a silk dress, And a promise of marriage from a rich man— (It was Lucius Atherton). But that was not really it at all. Suppose a boy steals an apple From the tray at the grocery store, And they all begin to call him a thief, The editor, minister, judge, and all the people— “A thief,” “a thief,” “a thief,” wherever he goes. And he can’t get work, and he can’t get bread Without stealing it, why the boy will steal. It’s the way the people regard the theft of the apple That makes the boy what he is.
Commentary on “Aner Clute”
Edgar Lee Masters’ speaker in “Aner Clute” compares her choosing “the life” to a boy stealing an apple from a grocery store.
First Movement: Getting into “The Life”
Over and over they used to ask me, While buying the wine or the beer, In Peoria first, and later in Chicago, Denver, Frisco, New York, wherever I lived, How I happened to lead the life, And what was the start of it.
Aner begins her drama by reporting that her johns (customers of a prostitute) would ask her how she got into “the life,” which is a euphemism for prostitution. They supposedly wanted to know “what was the start of it.”
These johns in Peoria, Chicago, Denver, San Francisco, New York, or “wherever [she] lived” would put these questions to her as they were “buying the wine or the beer.”
No doubt, they asked not so much because they cared how she became a “working girl,” but likely just to have something to say. They probably had little else in common with their companion for the night, and such a question would seem personal enough yet non-intimidating.
Second Movement: Blame it on a Dress and a Promise
Well, I told them a silk dress, And a promise of marriage from a rich man— (It was Lucius Atherton).
Aner claims she would tell them she got into the business because of “a silk dress, / And a promise of marriage from a rich man.” She even names the man, Lucius Atherton.
Third Movement: A Lie and Ludicrous Comparison
But that was not really it at all. Suppose a boy steals an apple From the tray at the grocery store, And they all begin to call him a thief, The editor, minister, judge, and all the people—
Aner then admits that her claim about the marriage promise and the silk dress was a lie, and she begins a ludicrous comparison of her choice to sell sex for a living to a boy stealing an apple from a grocery store. Clute’s pitiful plaint is that “the editor, minister, judge, and all the people” took up the refrain of calling the boy “a thief.”
Fourth Movement: The Label Makes the Man
“A thief,” “a thief,” “a thief,” wherever he goes. And he can’t get work, and he can’t get bread Without stealing it, why the boy will steal. It’s the way the people regard the theft of the apple That makes the boy what he is.
Clute continues her analogy and chorus of “all the people” calling the boy, “A thief,” “a thief,” “a thief.” Everywhere the poor lad goes someone calls him a thief. The boy’s reputation as a thief prevents the boy from finding any job. He cannot even supply his own meals, so the boy can do only one thing—continue to steal.
According to Aner, the boy’s predicament was not engendered by the boy stealing an apple; his life as a thief resulted from “the way the people regard the theft of the apple.” Their heartless taunting “ma[de] the boy what he is.”
The reason that Aner’s analogy to the boy-turned-thief sounds utterly asinine is because it is. She is implying that because she took money once for sex, she had to continue because everywhere she went, people would call her names like whore, slut, slattern or whatever.
So Aner’s difficulty was not her own making. Her downfall was having other people label her a whore that made her actually become a prostitute. Such is the convoluted thinking of many of these Spoon River cemetery inmates. They are never to blame for their choices—they blame society in the town of Spoon River.
Image: Emily Dickinson – Amherst College – Daguerrotype of the poet at age 17, circa 1847 – likely the only authentic, extant likeness of the poet
Emily Dickinson’s “Like her the Saints retire”
In Emily Dickinson’s “Like her the Saints retire,” the speaker likens a departed woman to retiring saints, sunset colors, and reasoning flowers, suggesting that death cannot erase her presence.
Introduction and Text of “Like her the Saints retire”
In “Like her the Saints retire,” the speaker muses on the death of a woman by comparing her to three things that seem to vanish yet do not entirely disappear: sainted souls, evening light, and autumn blossoms. Through this triad, the speaker questions whether “departed” truly means gone.
Like her the Saints retire
Like her the Saints retire, In their Chapeaux of fire, Martial as she!
Like her the Evenings steal Purple and Cochineal After the Day!
“Departed” – both – they say! i.e. gathered away, Not found,
Argues the Aster still – Reasons the Daffodil Profound!
Commentary on “Like her the Saints retire”
The speaker is building a quiet argument that departure is not extinction, using saints, sunsets, and flowers as three witnesses.
First Stanza: “Like her the Saints retire”
Like her the Saints retire, In their Chapeaux of fire, Martial as she!
The speaker opens by comparing the departed woman to saints who “retire” in “Chapeaux of fire.” The image suggests crowned or haloed figures withdrawing from earthly view, not annihilated but transformed, still blazing with a fire that outlasts the body.
Paramahansa Yogananda explains that consciousness is indestructible and survives the body’s dissolution, a teaching he offers in his reflections on immortality. This idea illuminates the speaker’s saints, whose retirement is glorification, not erasure.
The final word of the stanza, “Martial,” casts the woman as a soldier facing her end with discipline and courage. She withdraws the way a warrior withdraws from a field already won, not defeated but simply finished with the visible battle.
In my earlier commentaries on Dickinson’s poems, I have discussed the speaker’s focus on inner spiritual insight over outer material existence. Here, the saints’ unseen fire operates the same way, hinting at a glory hidden from ordinary sight.
By pairing sainthood with martial bearing, the speaker refuses to let death be accepted merely as defeat. The woman joins a ceremonial company that only appears to leave, its true condition burning quietly beyond the reach of mourners’ eyes.
Second Stanza: “Like her the Evenings steal”
Like her the Evenings steal Purple and Cochineal After the Day!
The speaker’s second comparison turns from saints to sunsets. Evenings “steal” purple and cochineal, a vivid red dye color, after daylight ends. The verb “steal” implies theft, a departure that removes color from view without destroying it.
Cochineal, drawn from crushed insects, was a costly, richly saturated pigment. By naming it precisely, the speaker insists the vanishing light was not pale or ordinary but sumptuous, worth grieving precisely because it was so richly hued before it withdrew.
The evening does not annihilate purple and cochineal; it simply removes them from present sight, folding them into night’s storehouse. This mirrors the woman’s death, framed not as loss of being but as a temporary withdrawal from visibility.
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s confidence in a world where beauty persists beyond ordinary sight. The stolen colors of evening function the same way here, hidden rather than destroyed.
The stanza’s exclamation mark, “After the Day!” lends the moment ceremonial weight, as though sunset were a formal exit rather than a fading. The woman’s departure, like the evening’s theft of color, becomes a dignified withdrawal, not a diminishment.
Third Stanza: “‘Departed’ – both – they say!”
“Departed” – both – they say! i.e. gathered away, Not found,
The speaker now names the shared verdict spoken over both the woman and the evening: “Departed.” The quotation marks signal skepticism, as though the speaker distrusts the word’s finality, treating it as common report rather than settled truth.
The gloss “i.e. gathered away” softens departure into something gentler than loss, an image of collection rather than destruction. Something gathered still exists somewhere, merely relocated beyond the reach of searching eyes.
“Not found” completes the thought with quiet insistence: absence from view is not proof of nonexistence. The speaker distinguishes carefully between what cannot presently be located and what has ceased to be.
Paramahansa Yogananda teaches that death is not extinction but a passing beyond present perception, a truth he sets forth in his teachings on loss. This view sharpens the speaker’s careful wording.
By refusing the word “departed” as full authority, the speaker builds her quiet case: what “they say” is only the surface report. Something gathered away and not found may yet remain, intact, elsewhere.
Fourth Stanza: “Argues the Aster still”
Argues the Aster still – Reasons the Daffodil Profound!
The speaker closes by calling two flowers as witnesses. The Aster, a late-season bloom, “argues still,” continuing its case for persistence even as autumn advances toward apparent ending. Its stubborn flowering counters the report of departure.
The Daffodil, a spring flower absent from the scene, is said to “reason,” and its reasoning is called “Profound.” Though unseen in this season, its eventual return each year offers evidence that vanished things resume, cyclically, undefeated by winter.
Together the two flowers form a natural argument against finality. One insists in the present tense; the other, though absent now, carries a deeper, patterned proof rooted in nature’s recurring seasons rather than momentary appearance.
