Saturday, December 10, 2011

shivered

The chill piercing marrow, the darkness comes so quickly, the apathy of sleeplessness and I almost didn't go anywhere last night, curled up on the couch drinking tea and watching movies like the true bachelorette that I am but it was right around the corner and I'm glad I showed up, because sometimes you go and hang out with people you don't know and it sucks so much you want to run out screaming and then other times like this one, it ends up being pretty awesome, and more of the geekiness slips out but no one seems to mind.

And now to study, to shake the ennui, to get through the season and remember the light.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky——
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness——
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness—blackness and silence.

Sylvia Plath, “The Moon and the Yew Tree”

Randal Graves said...

Hanging out with strangers? You're much braver or drug-addled than I, berserker.

thatgirl said...

dmf,
I wonder if Plath's actual works get overlooked because of the whole Bell Jar/suicide thing.

Randal,
Braver or more stupid?
Don't answer that.