"I taste a liquor never brewed" by Emily Dickinson
I taste a liquor never brewed —
From Tankards scooped in Pearl —
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of air — am I —
And Debauchee of Dew —
Reeling — thro’ endless summer days —
From inns of molten Blue —
When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door —
When Butterflies — renounce their “drams” —
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats —
And Saints — to windows run —
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the — Sun!
In My Own Words:
I drink an alcoholic beverage that has never been brewed, that feels like it must be made of liquid pearls. Not even the most famous of wine berries could create such a drink as mine. I am a drunkard of the fresh air. I am obsessed with morning dew. I stumble through the endless summer days, away from blue flowers that are like pubs. I imagine that the bartenders turn the bees out of the foxglove flowers when they’ve had enough nectar, and that butterflies know when to stop drinking nectar, but I will just keep drinking in the fresh air. Alike to people watching a drunkard stumble down the street, the angels and saints in heaven will run to see me, the little drunkard, leaning against the sun like a drunk leans against a lamppost in the street.
Emily Dickinson writes here about the feeling of being overwhelmed by the joy of fresh air and sunshine, comparing the experience to that of a drunkard who doesn’t know when to stop drinking.
I adore Dickinson’s turns of phrases here, such as “inebriate of air,” “Debauchee of Dew,” and “the little Tippler Leaning against the Sun!” It is through little phrases like this that we get a clear image of the two very different experiences she is comparing. I am endlessly tickled by the contrast between the degenerate drunkard in the streets and the woman in a field full of wild flowers, breathing deeply with arms outstretched.
This poem has a “funny-because-it’s-true” sort of quality, which is one of the things that makes it my favorite of Emily Dickinson’s poems. The comparison she draws is funny, but only because it gets across an aspect of truth in a completely unexpected and fresh way. To be overwhelmed by beauty can sometimes be the most wholesome kind of inebriation.
The first time I ever saw my father cry, it was on one of our many camping trips. We were in the car, driving up a mountainside to our campsite. Below us, we could see a lake, and the sunshine reflected off of it. Over the car’s speakers, “Sunshine on my Shoulders” by John Denver played. I sat in the passenger seat, feet curled up, and nodded in and out of sleep. Suddenly, I became conscious of a sound my father was making. When I looked up at him, I saw that he was crying.
“Are you okay, dad?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m great, kiddo,” he said, grabbing my knee and giving it a playful shake.
I didn’t say anything else, and neither did he. We drove on, and I learned something about my dad that day, which Emily Dickinson has helped me put into words: He is an inebriate of air.
Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy, sunshine in my eyes can make me cry.
Sunshine on the water looks so lovely, sunshine almost always makes me high.
If I had a day that I could give you, I’d give to you a day just like today.
If I had a song that I could sing for you, I’d sing a song to make you feel this way.
-John Denver
