untitled poem inspired by Sylvia Plath
The following poem is inspired by the engaging confessional poetry of Sylvia Plath. She participated in the growing spread of Surrealism as a philosophy and form of art. Although Plath was a pioneer beyond her living time, she suffered from clinical depression. In 1956 she married the English poet Ted Hughes; they had two children together. The couple separated in 1962. In 1963, Slvia passed away from suicide by the gas oven in the Home, the children were physically unharmed but the devastation still plagued the family for decades later. As writers, I believe it’s more than important to understand and honor the eminent power of those before us, that Inspire us now.
It is before me, the silky marbelized inking,
Moving like a stone among a waterfall; drips
Its word travels through the air, a scorched syllable
It is quiet, but still a harmony it is singing,
Liked the tongue of a stranger inside bruised lips,
So quaint it must be invisible
It is devolving now, stars that are shrinking,
Dismembering at the sight of its own reflection; fits
Its form is so potent now, inhaled volatilizable
It is behind me, but still, it is seething,
Like unstained by the earth, milky bones, honestly: it sits
So particular that way, it is non-refillable
It is motionless now, wet from the sea, still wringing
Splashing at the sight of its own depiction; resists
Its existence is so futile now, so frail it is not even fixable
Comments
Post a Comment