The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
On their blotter of fog the trees
Seem a botanical drawing.
Memories growing, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.
Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Wasit-deep in history.
Full of wings, otherworldliness.
In this, they are Ledas.
O mother of leaves and sweetness
Who are these pietas?
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing.
Sylvia Plath
(Paradise Pond at Smith College, Plath's alma mater and home of her manuscripts, letters, and general memorabilia.)
4 comments:
I actually have this poem as a post-it on my computer, to remind me what a true poem is. Fucking brilliant. Thanks for posting it, homina. Word to big bird.
Word indeed! Strange, while I was there the weather was such an unsettling yet still mix of rain, snow, and fog.
And also strange--I was just looking at the version of this poem in the Collected and the punctuation is different than in the Winter Trees collection. Must venture back to look at the manuscripts again :)
That's a great photograph, Reagan; did you take it?
Hope you enjoyed your trip/research!
thanks! took it with me new camera :)
missed you guys at d-bbq. must go again soon...
reading plath among lilies and mahogany was lovely, though i needed more time...
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