Sylvia Plath

Unfinished Sunrise

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~from the Collection, Odes to Plath

Hidden in dark-petal
groves where trees of
doubt and rivers of
fear flow –

You stand neck-deep
in the mud of
disillusionment, all
the false promises,
desiccated dreams,
chirping in your ear;
their malevolent
voices
haunting the darkness
as you struggle
to rise,
sinking deeper
until the mud crawls
inside your mouth
forces itself
down your throat,
into your center, attacks
the dreams hiding
in hope of light.
Out of this dire swamp
of human condition
you reach for a
twig, limb of a tree,
for something to hoist,
push-pull yourself
to freedom.

Hidden in dark-petal
groves where trees of
doubt and rivers of
fear flow –

You are growing,
push-pull-leaning
toward
that one ray of light,
struggling to pull
yourself out
of this thing called
Depression –
because there’s an
unfinished sunrise
you’re trying to
find.

~South Carolina, 2011

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ARTWORK: Anhelo by Ryan Swallow. To see more of Ryan’s artwork, including this piece, please go here. You may read more about the artist here. Or, you can visit his website at: http://ryanswallow.com

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A very special Thank You to Jingle and Thursday Poet’s Rally for the award below! You are all deeply appreciated.

 I nominate mindlovemisery  at: http://mindlovemisery.wordpress.com/

the excavated self

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the excavated self

~from the Collection, Odes to Plath

I admit there is an obscurity
in your work
that lends itself
to my confusion.
But —
don’t bother yourself about it.

I am not expertly aware of how
stone is cut either but
I can still appreciate
the majesty of the cathedral.

So it is,
block by block,
piece by piece,
this building we must do.

The excavated self of blood-raw bone
and glistening sinew,
taken-out, twisted and cut,
examined, the warm blood lingering
fresh on our hands.

Poems are pulled
from a raw-bright-red center,
twisted-cut, re-coiled,
reconstructed,
to form words into lines
into stanzas into poems.

Poems
born at the center of
an excavated self,
becoming our cathedral
as we worship at the center
where creation hides
poems
that we build.

~September 2010

Gleaned from Ink

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Gleaned from Ink

~from the Collection, Odes to Plath

It is never a shock that you died.
(You announced deaths’ presence often
enough, explained your acquaintance
with his cold, familiar person.)

Not your dying, but the final distorted picture —
Isolated, alone, invisible gas, babies in the next room.
That stunning portrait shock-ripples our consciousness.
The proximity of life and death
so closely knitted together —
touching threads aligned
evenly in your created tapestry.

Your destiny was to become a great poet,
immortality gleaned from ink
flowing across a contrast-white background,
the dark-lined letters of your life
a glistening hue.

~composed September 2010.

ARTWORK CREDIT: The Scribe and the Scroll…, by Jon Gemma. Original and other artwork here.
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