Sunday, May 17, 2009

Sunday Poetry: Sylvia Plath


Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk

Invisible air drifts,
Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish ----
Such queer moons we live with

Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these traveling
Globes of thin air, red, green,

The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small

Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,

Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.

Sylvia Plath


Blogger shrimplate said...

"Brother" is little baby Nicholas, who recently himself committed suicide after living a very private life as a marine biologist, I think.

One of the things that attracts me to Plath's work is her "transformative" power; her ability to take a little slice of life and turn it into a grand and complex free-standing poem.

Thank you.

6:48 AM  

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