UK National Poetry Day 2014

Today is National Poetry Day in the UK! In lieu of subjecting you to my own poetical musings, I wanted to share one of my favorite poems.

Lesbos by Sylvia Plath

Viciousness in the kitchen!
The potatoes hiss.
It is all Hollywood, windowless,
The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine,
Coy paper strips for doors
Stage curtains, a widow’s frizz.
And I, love, am a pathological liar,
And my child look at her, face down on the floor,
Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear
Why she is schizophrenic,
Her face is red and white, a panic,
You have stuck her kittens outside your window
In a sort of cement well
Where they crap and puke and cry and she can’t hear.
You say you can’t stand her,
The bastard’s a girl.
You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio
Clear of voices and history, the staticky
Noise of the new.
You say I should drown the kittens. Their smell!
You say I should drown my girl.
She’ll cut her throat at ten if she’s mad at two.
The baby smiles, fat snail,
From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum.
You could eat him. He’s a boy.
You say your husband is just no good to you.
His Jew-Mama guards his sweet sex like a pearl.
You have one baby, I have two.
I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you.

Meanwhile there’s a stink of fat and baby crap.
I’m doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.
The smog of cooking, the smog of hell
Floats our heads, two venemous opposites,
Our bones, our hair.
I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill.
The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.
Once you were beautiful.
In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: “Through?
Gee baby, you are rare.”
You acted, acted for the thrill.
The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
I try to keep him in,
An old pole for the lightning,
The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue.
The blue sparks spill,
Splitting like quartz into a million bits.

O jewel! O valuable!
That night the moon
Dragged its blood bag, sick
Animal
Up over the harbor lights.
And then grew normal,
Hard and apart and white.
The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death.
We kept picking up handfuls, loving it,
Working it like dough, a mulatto body,
The silk grits.
A dog picked up your doggy husband. He went on.

Now I am silent, hate
Up to my neck,
Thick, thick.
I do not speak.
I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes,
I am packing the babies,
I am packing the sick cats.
O vase of acid,
It is love you are full of. You know who you hate.
He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate
That opens to the sea
Where it drives in, white and black,
Then spews it back.
Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher.
You are so exhausted.
Your voice my ear-ring,
Flapping and sucking, blood-loving bat.
That is that. That is that.
You peer from the door,
Sad hag. “Every woman’s a whore.
I can’t communicate.”

I see your cute decor
Close on you like the fist of a baby
Or an anemone, that sea
Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac.
I am still raw.
I say I may be back.
You know what lies are for.

Even in your Zen heaven we shan’t meet.

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Celebrating H.D.

Today is H.D.‘s birthday so I thought I would share my favorite of her poems. I was lucky enough to study HD while abroad at the University of Exeter as part of my “Beyond Plath: Modern American Women Poets.”

 

 

Helen
by H. D.
All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.

All Greece reviles
the wan face when she smiles,
hating it deeper still
when it grows wan and white,
remembering past enchantments
and past ills.

Greece sees, unmoved,
God's daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slenderest knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funereal cypresses.

A poem for your weekday

This week in my advanced poetry writing class we’ve been looking at the work of Adrienne Rich. The poem that spoke to me the most was “Diving into the Wreck.” It’s such an interesting exploration of gender and memory!  Here it is below:

Diving into the Wreck
First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed

the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.

Week in Review: What I Read

The lack of pictures for the post is due entirely to my weekend “getaway” (more on that in a post later this week). Here’s a look at my reading for this week:


  1. Racist Hunger Games Fans Disappointed:  This article just makes me really sad. Apparently there are many Hunger Games fans who didn’t get the memo that not only is Suzanne Collins not racist, she actually *gasp* put characters who weren’t white in her books! Not only did these people say really terrible things but they somehow think that these things are okay to publish all over twitter.

  2. Poem of the Week:Wynken, Blynken and Nod:   I remember reading this poem when I was little so this was a wonderful rediscovery! It’s funny how a lot of the books and poems I adored so much as a child were written in the late Victorian period or were set then — it dovetails perfectly with my academic coursework at Kenyon/University of Exeter!

  3. Weird Things Customers Say in Bookshops: This one is just a funny little book-related piece to laugh over. It never ceases to amaze me how tickled pink I get over bookshop anecdotes!
  4. Woman Files 1M Dollar Lawsuit Against Apple For Broken Nose: In another case of extreme stupidity, a woman walked into a glass wall and is suing Apple. Hasn’t she seen the commercial with the birds flying into windows?

Speak With Conviction

A friend posted this video on Facebook yesterday and I wanted to share it with you!

As funny as the poem is, the truth it reveals is scary–
my generation does preface statements with unnecessary things.
We phrase things as questions.
We add unnecessary words.

Why?

Because we’re scared.

We’re scared our opinions don’t matter or that no one will want to hear them.

We’re scared to look stupid in front of our peers or worse in front of our professors.

We’re scared that we really are “the stupidest generation yet” just like they report in the papers.

 

This poem tells it like it is.

In order to be taken seriously, we have to speak seriously.

In order to be accepted as intellectual beings, we have to drop our “ums” our “likes” and our “you knows”.

In order to prove to ourselves we are worthy we have to state our opinions without fear and
use declarative sentences.