More birthday. Happy Birthday:
- — The University of Oxford and Indiana University are pleased to announce a joint interdisciplinary conference commemorating Sylvia Plath’s 75th birthday —
- — Oxford Marks 75 Years Of Sylvia Plath —
- — A Kind of Heroism —
- — One for Life, One for Death —
- — Sylvia Plath’s Tupperware years —
Firesong
by: Sylvia Plath
Born green we were
to this flawed garden,
but in speckled thickets, warted as a toad,
spitefully skulks our warden,
fixing his snare
which hauls down buck, cock, trout, till all most fair
is tricked to faulter in split blood.
Now our whole task’s to hack
some angel-shape worth wearing
from his crabbed midden where all’s wrought so awry
that no straight inquiring
could unlock
shrewd catch silting our each bright act back
to unmade mud cloaked by sour sky.
Sweet salts warped stem
of weeds we tackle towards way’s rank ending;
scorched by red sun
we heft globed flint, racked in veins’ barbed bindings;
brave love, dream
not of staunching such strict flame, but come,
lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.
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Poetry News:
- — Poetic Theaters, Romantic Fevers [one can always check NYT for poetry-related articles here] —
- — Sonnets served with a slice of pi —
- — Revisiting North Carolina’s finest poet —
- — “This is a clip from the new Bob Dylan movie. It stars Cate Blanchett as Bob Dylan and David Cross as Allen Ginsberg.” —
- — Palestinian Poet Blasts Infighting —
- — He felt that doing the work was a rehearsal for the work itself, and each rehearsal then became its own work [Thanks to Helen Frost for the link] —
- — Poetry of the beach —
This is from Crossing the Water. (I disagree & like it better than Ariel and I like how the metaphors act like small bombs of surprise as you read the poems.) And I wish she’d've written more poems like this because whoo:
Maudlin
Mud-mattressed under the sign of the hag
In a clench of blood, the sleep-talking virgin
Gibbets with her curse the moon’s man
Faggot-bearing Jack in his crackless egg:
Hatched with a claret hogshead to swig
He kings it, navel-knit to no groan,
But at the price of a pin-stitched skin
Fish-tailed girls purchase each white leg.
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I apologize to any of you who (like me a little bit) are on the color-blind side. I couldn’t resist posting this, my favorite poem. Makes me cry every time. I think it is the sheer sound of it.
r
k
n
l
nt
Black Rook in Rainy Weather
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain –
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design –,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can’t honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then –
Thus hallowing an intervaestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largesse, honor
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); sceptical
Yet politic, ignorant
Of whatever angel any choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur.
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance
Miracles. The wait’s begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent
.
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