The Color of the Grave is Green (Emily Dickinson, 1862)

 

 

Graveyards have their space in poetic expression, as they materialise life. Graveyards, through memorial sculptures or slabs of stones upon them, link us to what was or what awaits to happen. Often, they are finite spaces where we find refuge from the infinite. Other times, the rows of stones, or an isolate single one, make us revisit ourselves.

 

While graveyards in the side of mountains have an undeniable charm, I find “resting places” in urban landscapes most welcoming. When I travel around a globe where countless have lived, died, and often buried, I try to visit urban graveyards. Somehow the contrast between the hustle of cities and the restfulness of cemeteries make me aware of what matters, during and at the end of our journey.

 

… This morning, thinking about graveyards, I re-read a rather simple poem by Emily Dickinson titled “The Color of the Grave is Green”, circa 1862. I was thinking about graveyards because a reader of my photography blog shared his thoughts about the photos I had taken at the Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires. In fact, that cemetery was one of my favorites to visit during every trip to Argentina.

Re-reading poems, or any literary work, is an exercise in introspection which changes our interpretation given life experiences. In my previous readings I had seen Dickinson, in a straightforward way, addressing death, human and ecological natures, through the color of graveyards stones.

The first stanza sets color as the theme of the poem:

The Color of the Grave is Green—
The Outer Grave—I mean—
You would not know it from the Field—
Except it own a Stone—

And the rest of the poem uses the colours white and black (through a parallel with the bonnet wore at the funeral) to describe the changes in nature’s seasons surrounding the graves.

And in my previous readings I had often thought of this poem as a serene moment Dickinson’s pen had surrendered to paper.

But this morning, I focused on two descriptors that suddenly took me away from that serene moment to a more turbulent and personal introspection. These words were “the Outer Grave” and “the Grave Within” she called “the Duplicate”.

Here is that stanza:

The Color of the Grave within—
The Duplicate—I mean—
Not all the snows c'd make it white—
Not all the Summers—Green—

This time, the Grave Within was not what laid under the stone, but it was a metaphor for what we had buried within ourselves. It was that secret burial site deep in us where our memories, secrets and fears were interred.  It was the site we all have away from others, perhaps from ourselves even. And it was the site where the only visitor has always been our self.

As such, it was not a “duplicate” – it was the Forbidden City where only we allowed ourselves to travel. It has its own distinct identity.

… I took another sip of coffee, which was now cold, and found myself reciting aloud a poem by Victor Hugo as I had done in secondary school. It is a poem about Hugo traveling across Normandy to visit the grave of his daughter. (My dog woke up under my desk wondering to whom I was talking …)

The poem is called “Demain, dès l’aube” and the first stanza reads:

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

(Tomorrow, at dawn, in the hour when the countryside becomes white,
I will leave. You see, I know that you are waiting for me.
I will go by the forest, I will go by the mountain.
I cannot stay far from you any longer.)

 

And the third stanza, most tender and somber, is:

Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

(I will not look at the gold of the evening which falls,
Nor the faraway sails descending towards Harfleur.
And when I arrive, I will put on your tomb
A green bouquet of holly and flowering heather.)

 

The English translation is By Camille Chevalier, and remains my favorite as it captures Hugo’s style and imagery perfectly.

 

Now back to photos I have taken in two of my favorite graveyards, one in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and the other in Singapore.

The Recoleta Cemetery is the ultimate urban graveyard where memorial statues are works of art. One feels like walking through a museum where the stories of thousands’ lives are shared with unknown visitors. The opening photo of this post is my favorite, not only because of the sculpture, but how the message of that memorial contrasts with the coldness of urban buildings surrounding the cemetery.

This next photo is about motherhood, childhood, and the passage of time. The moss left on the marble adds to the visualisation of that passage, and there is a tenderness, and hope, that touched me at every visit.

 

Finally, a memorial statue where mythology, religion and human interpretation are united in an imposing work of art.

 

 

The second graveyard I have often visited is behind the Armenian Apostolic Church of St. Gregory the Illuminator, in Singapore. The statues and engraved stone heads are few, and rarely made of marble. Time and the tropical climate of Singapore have taken a toll on the sandstones, but the church and its cemetery are beautifully and caringly preserved by the government.  The statue that touches me most is all about grace in celebrating and accepting every step of our journey. The statue seems to look inside its stony self, and I always saw much beauty in that introspection.

 

Perhaps that is the “Grave Within” sometimes shared with every visitor.

 

March 15, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026