tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755324881069581621.post6745516900805968908..comments2023-10-29T09:54:42.815-04:00Comments on Cleveland Love: shiveredthat girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437960307212648550noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755324881069581621.post-14466295265126207072011-12-11T20:16:08.169-05:002011-12-11T20:16:08.169-05:00dmf,
I wonder if Plath's actual works get over...dmf,<br />I wonder if Plath's actual works get overlooked because of the whole Bell Jar/suicide thing. <br /><br />Randal,<br />Braver or more stupid? <br />Don't answer that.that girlhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12437960307212648550noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755324881069581621.post-59498361445032042372011-12-11T05:26:02.048-05:002011-12-11T05:26:02.048-05:00Hanging out with strangers? You're much braver...Hanging out with strangers? You're much braver or drug-addled than I, berserker.Randal Graveshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08728992897551848531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755324881069581621.post-89128275788629531982011-12-10T21:06:48.057-05:002011-12-10T21:06:48.057-05:00This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary....This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.<br />The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.<br />The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God, <br />Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility. <br />Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place<br />Separated from my house by a row of headstones. <br />I simply cannot see where there is to get to.<br /><br />The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, <br />White as a knuckle and terribly upset.<br />It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet <br />With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. <br />Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky——<br />Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection. <br />At the end, they soberly bong out their names.<br /><br />The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape. <br />The eyes lift after it and find the moon.<br />The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. <br />Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. <br />How I would like to believe in tenderness——<br />The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, <br />Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.<br /><br />I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering<br />Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.<br />Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,<br />Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,<br />Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.<br />The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.<br />And the message of the yew tree is blackness—blackness and silence.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath, “The Moon and the Yew Tree”Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com