This month I’m going to be discussing a poem by Emily Dickinson that I feel really shows just how innovative and brilliant she was. I came to appreciate Dickinson after I graduated from grad school; like most people, I encountered her in grade school, and struggled to connect with her work. It wasn’t until I decided to sit down with her work, alone, and took my time reading her that I began to understand why she’s so important, especially in terms of modern poetry. Her poems are very lyrical and deal with big subjects: death, spirituality, femininity, and philosophy. What is so significant about her as a poet is the fact that she essentially created her own form—she did not write in the accepted forms that existed during the time she was writing. This allowed her to explore deeper topics in ways that are utterly unique to poetry in general. The form she developed opened up space for her to express subject matter and voice in ways that were rare for the time (and in the present moment as well). The poem I’m discussing, “1508,” is actually my favorite poem of hers and here it is in its entirety:

You cannot make Remembrance grow
When it has lost its Root—
The tightening the Soil around
And setting it upright
Deceives perhaps the Universe
But not retrieves the Plant—
Real Memory, like Cedar Feet
Is shod with Adamant—
Nor can you cut Remembrance down
When it shall once have grown
Its Iron Buds will sprout anew
However overthrown—

What I like so much about this poem is that it’s a simple meditation on memory that utilizes a plant as a metaphor. I also like the speaker’s directness: “You cannot make Remembrance grow / When it has lost its Root.” Although this statement feels authoritative, it is also incredibly honest. The next lines: “The tightening the Soil around / And setting it upright / Deceives perhaps the Universe / But not retrieves the Plant” elaborates on this truth about memory: you can try to manipulate memory all you want, but it does not change reality. The next lines, “Real Memory, like Cedar Feet / Is shod with Adamant” clarifies what real memory is: enduring and unchangeable. In this poem, Dickinson is using the word “Remembrance” which to me feels very much connected to the concept of memory, but it also feels like it has a bigger implication that relates to history—how things get remembered on a broader scale. The last lines are especially impactful because they rail against the idea that memory can be torn down and reconstructed to suit the needs of those who want to present a reality that is more “favorable”: “Nor can you cut Remembrance down / When it shall once have grown / Its Iron Buds will sprout anew / However overthrown.”

The speaker’s tone is very strong and sturdy in this poem, but also very comforting because although it feels like it is addressing those who would manipulate memory to achieve a desired interpretation that is ultimately false, I feel that Dickinson is speaking to those who have been affected by the attempts of others to either rewrite the past or erase them from it. The poem, although critical, is highly empowering, especially in those last lines: “Its Iron Buds will sprout anew / However overthrown.” This poem feels like it speaks to the downtrodden. The image “Iron Buds” is also very powerful because it is a metaphor for truth—what actually happened will be remembered because the truth is indestructible. What makes this poem so brilliant is not just the way Dickinson uplifts those who have been oppressed by artificial constructs of reality, but the fact that the poem lends itself to that interpretation. Dickinson uses a lot of big words/concepts in this poem—“Remembrance,” “Universe,” “Real Memory,” “Adamant”—that suggest the poem is about more than trying to make a plant grow that has been disconnected from its roots. It can also be about how the past gets remembered. This is what makes Dickinson so great; her poems typically do this: they leave the door open for the reader to contemplate poetry’s deeper desire, which is to communicate larger truths.

The song I’m going to talk about is Lou Reed’s “Vicious.” I have always known of Lou Reed, but never listened to him until recently. I was introduced to him through the punk genre; he is considered a forerunner of punk music, and he is. The first song of his that I really connected with was “Vicious.” I first heard it as a grad student in 2016 when I decided to sit down and give his music a listen, and it resonated with me in a powerful way. I listened to it repeatedly; it is one of those songs that, for me, never gets old. It is from his second album Transformer (1972); David Bowie provides backing vocals; Mick Ronson plays the lead guitar parts, plus, Andy Warhol also received writing credits. He was the one that suggested Reed write a song called “Vicious” and gave him the line “You hit me with a flower.” However, this song is all Lou Reed. What I mean by that is that this song embodies his personality in ways that serve as a foundation for the lyrical tone that punk grew out of—which is both playful and dark.

The song structure is very simple: two verses and a repeating chorus along with a short outro. Musically, it begins with a simple strumming rhythm, which is what makes this song extremely punk: it’s intentionally basic. The lead guitar comes in at a higher tone that is more sound than melody, which again, is very punk. Lou Reed sings the first verse:

Vicious
You hit me with a flower
You do it every hour
Oh, baby, you’re so vicious

Vicious
You want me to hit you with a stick
But all I’ve got’s a guitar pick
Heh, baby, you’re so vicious

What is important to understand about this song is that lyrically, there is no deeper meaning; the lyricist is simply teasing the “you.” The sarcastic playfulness of the song is what makes it enjoyable; it’s not to meant to be taken literally. Because “Vicious” is one of the defining songs that spawned the punk sensibility, the lyrics should be understood from that perspective. Reed is not singing so much as he is speaking rhythmically along with the music, giving it a spoken word vibe. The lyrics also feel as though he is making them up as he goes along, which is also very punk: lyrics created on the spot. The song shifts into the chorus, but maintains its steady rhythm:

When I watch you come, baby, I just wanna run, far away
You’re not the kind of person ‘round I wanna stay
When I see you walking down the street
I step on your hands and I mangle your feet
You’re not the kind of person that I want to meet
Oh, babe, you’re so vicious
You’re just so vicious

The song shifts into a slightly lower, more melodic tone when Reed sings “When I see you walking down the street…” This is where the backing vocals come in and Reed becomes a little more intense with his singing. There is a short guitar solo that sounds more like guitar noise than actual music, which is another signature of punk music, and then Reed sings the second verse as the song returns to its basic rhythmic structure:

Vicious
Hey, you hit me with a flower
You do it every hour
Oh, baby, you’re so vicious

Vicious
Hey, why don’t you swallow razorblades
You must think that I’m some kinda gay blade
But, baby, you’re so vicious

The lyrics, “Why don’t you swallow razorblades / You must think that I’m some kinda gay blade” are intentional in their teasing sarcasm. The lyricist is speaking in good humor, which was not common during that time in this particular manner. This song is definitely in the realm of dark humor and Reed’s steady, mellow voice operates as a nice contrast to the more “violent” elements of the song. His voice embodies a kind of clever innocence that makes the song fun and exciting to listen to. The chorus is sung again, but altered slightly:

When I see you coming, I just have to run
You’re not good and you certainly aren’t very much fun
When I see you walking down the street
I step on your hand and I mangle your feet
You’re not the kind of person that I even want to meet
‘Cause you’re so vicious
Baby, you’re so vicious

Another fascinating element of the song is how the words “Vicious” and “Baby” work with each other to create a deeper level of tension. “Vicious” becomes affectionate as the “you” is referred to as “Baby.” This could almost be considered a love song because the lyricist does seem to be flirting: “You’re not good and you certainly aren’t very much fun / You’re not the kind of person that I even want to meet” feel like lines that would tease a significant other or a love interest who might be inclined to like the lyricist’s darker sense of humor. So this song is multilayered; it hits more than one aspect of creative expression: playfulness and love. As the chorus ends, the lead guitar comes back in with its high-pitched wailing and Reed repeats the word “Vicious” several times to great effect as the word takes on a deeper meaning that has more to do with erotic love than insult.

Emily Dickinson and Lou Reed have one major aspect in common: they both opened up the genres they were working in. Although Emily Dickinson was not the first poet to explore big concepts and higher thought in poetry, she was one of the first to explore an open-ended form that allowed for deeper contemplation through interpretive means. Although Lou Reed was not the first rock music lyricist to write songs that were humorous and clever, he was one of the first to do it with the intention to resist meaning in such a way that it inspired an entire new genre of music. I’ve come to respect both the poet and musician as I’ve gotten older; what makes their work so special to me is that I can recognize how influential they were, and continue to be. When I sit down to read Emily Dickinson, I do not feel like I’m reading poetry from the 19^th century. When I sit down to listen to Lou Reed, I do not feel like I’m listening to music from the 1970s. They both transcended the moments they were writing out of and they both feel utterly timeless to me. I am someone who thinks about genre when I engage in poetry and music. For me, it deepens my understanding of how a poet or a musician is communicating creative expression, how their nuanced interpretations of a particular medium can give life to or deepen subgenres. I understand lyric poetry better when I read Dickinson; I understand punk music better when I listen to Reed. This cannot be understated: Dickinson and Reed are classic examples of why genre matters and how genre helps to propel artistic mediums into new territory. To me, they are markers of creative evolution, and this is what makes them truly noteworthy. Poetry would not exist in its current form without Emily Dickinson; punk music would not exist in its current form without Lou Reed.

September 5, 2022