Pathetic division within Modernity's Punctal Theory

Meistersinger Hans Sachs writes:

"My friend, just this is poet’s task:
His dreams to read and to unmask.
Trust me, illusion’s truths thrice sealed
In dream to man will be revealed.
All verse-craft and poetisation
Is but soothdream interpretation."

This sad translation from that most jubilantly biting of tongues reveals the oft noted link between the dream-world and the poetic inspiration: a link that Dickinson undoubtedly and (likely) relentlessly clutched to as she dipped her pen in the blue sinews of her ink-stained mind. No doubt, her use of the dash in light of this exhausted and slightly delusional Speaker’s discernments proves that the stringed series of her innumerable poems should be read as the relics of a haunting dream sequence. Indeed, pathos is the logos of dreams—in that world of moldy designs and distorted lines, only feeling can gift the accolade of sense; and is poetry not the billowing eccho of this innate incline? In poetry we find reverie, the day-light equivalent of our nocturnal speculations. And punctles, the bringers of sense; the heralds of logos amidst a fray of lexical strife, must vest themselves in the garb of emotional enterprise. Leading the pathetic division within the larger dimension of Modern Punctal Theory tiptoes the dash, slinking along like a snake through a darkening culvert, followed by the eager (!!!) exclamatory mark, finally skirted by the somber suspension of the ellipsian flecks.

The dashes; the sparks

Hinging the moment from slumber to stir is a tittering dash—a horizontal slash of the kind that clinches the sky and the land: an elusive, penumbral half-line; a twilight of mind; a movement unfurled and distinctly defined.

This is the dash: the most visceral of the perishing punctles, its aim: to attach. Sentimental, so sentient, the dash marks a pause of delight—one that tickles the mind in quickening rhyme. It is the punctle of dreams: devoid of the logos of colons, the machinations of the subliminal mind rely on the pathos of our most feverish sign. And isn’t it the most ambiguous of our punctative sprites, this frolicking line that billows in roving recline the contents of a diction sublime? Oh, Dickinson knew it!-- when in lonesome concealment she sequestered her mind within the boundaries of these limitless lines; she sings:

The Brain—is wider than the sky—
For—put them side by side—
The one the other will contain
With ease—and You—beside—

The Brain is deeper than the sea—
For—hold them—Blue to Blue—
The one the other will absorb—
As sponges—Buckets—do—

The Brain is just the weight of God—
For—Heft them—Pound for Pound—
And they will differ—if they do—
As Syllable from Sound—

The pauses of the dash are tempered in movement; they itch to prolong a climactic caesura of restless delay; a tension lax; a furl of electric delight positioning combinations of lexeme amid springing, uncontainable, sparks.

Of dashes (the motions of mind)

A spider once whispered a secret of gossamer line in the ear of a child that read with his mind—it rustled like rhyme—like a crushing of leaves by the darkening wind in the mint of a night—and he closed his eyes—and he opened his mind to the motions abound in the quiet of sound—in the twilight of mind—where the hollows of time begin to mime—where the hand reclines—where the spirit blithe sings in notes so high the Cherubims sigh—and the light takes flight!—for a moment he lies in obscure delight—in a daze of fantastic respite—and a lapis lazuli consumes a cerulean height—in the mind of an eye—where a vision of telescopic delight reigns a supreme right—bending the ridges of time—ebbing the wisps of a wonder back to a slender root—of a mystical kind—where clarity shines like the winks of a light caught in the glaucous ooze of primordial slime—but alas—the sound of a spoon as it clinks on a dish—from a distant smoky ravine—shakes open his lids in violent whisks—and the child sighs—forgetting his might he ebbs into vigilance—arises in time—the spider reclines. 

A ghoul in relics

Following this ardent apology succeeds an argumentation vested in logic’s design:

Whitman’s use of the dash generates a quick movement of breath that mirrors in form the “speeding . . . unreeling” spider’s silken thread. The dash makes the poem, looming thrice at pivotal moments of movement—carrying the momentum of the creative mind in hasty pause. The Speaker imagines Whitman a diligent spider, endlessly weaving his Leaves of Grass in some cottage cranny, eight arms at full length, “ceaselessly musing”—birthing fine linen in ringlets of elegant line; forging and shaping an impulse of soul: a means of design meant to build “till the bridge you will need be formed, Till the ductile anchor hold”. Indeed, Whitman did mark where on a bluff a delicate spider perused its surroundings through lurches of silk, but arguably he did more than this:

“A noiseless patient spider,
I marked where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding”

To mark; to etch on paper: to write—who is this spindling spider? Is it perhaps a vision of our pouncing poet, himself settled neatly in a seat off of a certain wooden (oak) desk—indeed a kind of little bluff? Our spidery poet—your silk has found crevice in the nooks of my moods: the threads of your “O my soul”, silver in substance, still fling in the winds of this gossamer ghoul.