IT FEELS A SHAME TO BE ALIVE

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It feels a shame to be Alive—
When Men so brave—are dead—
One envies the Distinguished Dust—
Permitted—such a Head—
The Stone—that tells defending Whom
This Spartan put away
What little of Him we—possessed
In Pawn for Liberty—
The price is great—Sublimely paid—
Do we deserve—a Thing—
That lives—like Dollars—must be piled
Before we may obtain?
Are we that wait—sufficient worth—
That such Enormous Pearl
As life—dissolved be—for Us—
In Battle’s—horrid Bowl?

It may be—a Renown to live—
I think the Man who die—
Those unsustained—Saviors—
Present Divinity—

–Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

 

THE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON, edited by Thomas H. Johnson, Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1951, 1955 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © renewed 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1914, 1918, 1919, 1924, 1929, 1930, 1932, 1935, 1937, 1942, by Martha Dickinson Bianchi. Copyright © 1952, 1957, 1958, 1963, 1965, by Mary L. Hampson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

 

From Tina Cane:

Emily Dickinson wrote “It Feels a Shame to Be Alive” in 1862, during the Civil War, after her close family friend, Frazar Sterns was killed while fighting against the Confederates. A tribute to the fallen, this is a poem
about survivor’s guilt, the futility of war, and the value of human life. Historians believe Dickinson may have also been commenting on her brother, Austin, who bought his way out of serving in the army, by paying
another man $500 to fight in his stead–a common practice for the rich back then. Coming from a family of privilege likely only compounded Dickinson’s guilt and sense that war is indeed a rigged business.

Heightened by humility, this homage—more grief than glory—discloses the complexity of survivor’s guilt. The first two lines land like a gut punch, partly because surviving war or hardship–or an era of cruelty—should not be cause for guilt, even if most of us often suffer such as part of the grieving process.

Dickinson’s need to articulate her anguish here feels fueled by a sense of helplessness. Interesting then to know
that the Civil War period was her most prolific. As is the case for many artists, creating was Dickinson’s form
of action, and yet writing did not lessen her frustration over being powerless to effect change.

History, however, raises the issues of guilt, responsibility, and action somewhat differently than poetry, and is not kind to those who stand by while others suffer. Time often diminishes the distinction between indifference and inaction. And yet time is also what helps distinguish them.

All this begs the question: What form must action take in this day and age? Writing? Reading? Marching? Speaking? Teaching? Tending? Disrupting? Running for office? Are any, or all of these, even enough? It’s hard to know what is coming down the pike—no matter which side of any issue one is on. What is clear remains the fact that “Saviors” (soldiers here) are unsustained, and that if we want to save anything, we’ll have to do it ourselves.