In the marketplace they are piling the dry sticks. A thicket of shadows is a poor coat. I inhabit The wax image of myself, a doll’s body. Sickness begins here: I am the dartboard for witches. Only the devil can eat teh devil out. In the month of red leaves I climb to a bed of fire.
It is easy to blame the dark: the mouth of a door, The cellar’s belly. They’ve blown my sparkler out. A black-sharded lady keeps me in parrot cage. What large eyes the dead have! I am intimate with a hairy spirit. Smoke wheels from the beak of this empty jar.
If I am a little one, I can do no harm. If I don’t move about, I’ll knock nothing over. So I said, Sitting under a potlid, tiny and inert as a rice grain. They are turning the burners up, ring after ring. We are full of starch, my small white fellows. We grow. It hurts at first. The red tongues will teach the truth.
Mother of beetles, only unclench your hand: I’ll fly through the candles’ mouth like a singeless moth. Give me back my shape. I am ready to construe the days I coupled with dust in the shadow of a stone. My ankles brighten. Brightness ascends my thighs. I am lost, I am lost, in the roves of all this light.
I’ve always been quite curious about Frieda. She’s a very private person, which is understandable in light of just how famous her parents were. I feel so much compassion for her because she really is the survivor of that family, having lost her mother, father, and brother. I think it’s so sad and tragic really. She’s also very outspoken about her father as well as critical of projects about Plath, such as the movie Sylvia, which she considered sordid and exploitative (I actually liked the movie, despite some alarming embellishments). If I find more interviews with Frieda, or pictures, etc. I will definitely post them. It’s great to see that people are also interested in her. I’m still undecided on whether or not she looks like Plath. At times I think I see it, but then other times I don’t. But, then again, Plath often looked so different from one picture to the next too. Thanks for the message and sorry about rambling!
Fabulous blog! Loved your Ted Hughes post. I've read several biographies about Plath, Hughes, and also his mistress, Assia Wevill. The book is called "Lover of Unreason" by Yehuda Koren. Keep up the good work with the great posts. :) Gwyn
Thanks for the kind words! I haven’t read “Lover of Unreason” but it sounds interesting. I honestly wish I could read every book ever written about both Plath and Hughes because I find them quite fascinating.
I love your blog... all these beautiful works inspire me so much!
Oh thanks! I’m in a Lady of Shalott mood at the moment because we just read it in my British Literature class. I’m also a major fan of John William Waterhouse. I’m glad you like my blog. I’m lucky to be able to share my interests with so many great and supportive people!
“I’m not against it because it’s disgusting. I’m against it because it’s falling in love. The only obsession everyone wants: ‘love.’ People think that in falling in love they make themselves whole? The Platonic union of souls? I think otherwise. I think you’re whole before you begin. And the love fractures you. You’re whole, and then you’re cracked open.”—Philip Roth, The Dying Animal (via fortuneandglory)
They enter as animals from the outer Space of holly where spikes Are not thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi, But greenness, darkness so pure They freeze and are.
O God, I am not like you In your vacuous black, Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti. Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
What I love is The piston in motion … My soul dies before it. And the hooves of the horses, Their merciless churn.
And you, great Stasis … What is so great in that! Is it a tiger this year, this roar at the door? It is a Christus, The awful God-bit in him Dying to fly and be done with it? The blood berries are themselves, they are very still.
The hooves will not have it, In blue distance the pistons hiss.
I can taste the tin of the sky —- the real tin thing. Winter dawn is the color of metal, The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves. All night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations —- An assembly-line of cut throats, and you and I Inching off in the gray Chevrolet, drinking the green Poison of stilled lawns, the little clapboard gravestones, Noiseless, on rubber wheels, on the way to the sea resort.
How the balconies echoed! How the sun lit up The skulls, the unbuckled bones facing the view! Space! Space! The bed linen was giving out entirely. Cot legs melted in terrible attitudes, and the nurses —- Each nurse patched her soul to a wound and disappeared. The deathly guests had not been satisfied With the rooms, or the smiles, or the beautiful rubber plants, Or the sea, Hushing their peeled sense like Old Mother Morphia.
“We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people.”—Martin Luther King Jr. (Letter from Birmingham Jail)
“Then he thinks about the idea of a museum: the physical record of things; the history of miracles; the miracle of nature and the miracle of hope and perseverance, arranged in such a way as to never be forgotten, or lost, or simply mistaken for everyday things with no particular significance.”—The City of Windy Trees (short story from Love Begins in Winter), by Simon Van Booy (via the-final-sentence)
“The stars were very high, and the wind was fresh as if it had come from woods and fields a long way off to visit these imprisoned branches. A vast universe stretched away in all directions from this house; and she would be a fool if she could not find some path of escape through it. In the street outside, her long, low, speed-shaped car made her exultant. Of space there was plenty, and she had the means to cover it.”—
I absolutely love your blog. I'm happy I found it! I am also in love with Bright Star. I just watched it again yesterday. :) Beautiful, beautiful movie. xx
Thank you for the compliment! I greatly appreciate it. I also love Bright Star, as you can tell from my posts as of late! It is definitely a beautiful movie and I wish more films like Bright Star were made. I can’t wait to see what Jane Campion (the director of the movie) does next!
wearing purple on the 20th is important. purple tumblr is important.
however, if we don’t make this purple mean anything more, it’s pointless. at the very least our wearing purple is a visual reminder to LGBTQ youth that they’re not alone and isolated, and that there’s a lot of love and support for them in the world. really, though, the purple needs to mean more than that.
here’s what i will mean by wearing purple tomorrow:
i will see you as a whole person, not just as your sexual identity.
i will listen to you, respect your experiences and opinions, and be supportive if you want to talk to me about your sexual identity.
i will call people out on homophobic remarks and actions, because that’s never okay.
i will acknowledge that straight privilege is very real and affects our lives every day, and that heteronormativity exists (even though it really shouldn’t).
i will ACTIVELY EDUCATE MYSELF about sexuality, gender & systems of oppression, in our current world and in a historical context
i will try to be as honest as possible about my own sexuality.
i will not treat you as a token, or expect you to speak for everyone who shares a similar sexual identity.
basically, i will do everything that i can to make the world a safe, happy, loving, encouraging, celebratory place for everyone because no one deserves to be treated differently or poorly because of their gender presentation or who they love/desire.
the end. the list could go on, but this is the most important stuff that i want all of you to know.
AND I WILL DO THIS EVERY DAY, NOT JUST OCT. 20th.
redhead-bouquet is one of my dear tumblr friends. I met her when I first joined this community. She is an intelligent, kind, vivacious, and brilliant writer and I feel so fortunate to know her.
“There’s a kind of Ah-ha! Somebody at least for a moment feels about something or sees something the way that I do. It doesn’t happen all the time. It’s these brief flashes or flames, but I get that sometimes. I feel unalone—intellectually, emotionally, spiritually. I feel human and unalone and that I’m in a deep, significant conversation with another consciousness in fiction and poetry in a way that I don’t with other art.”—David Foster Wallace (via whiskyandwhimsy)
On this day in 1950, American poet Edna St. Vincent Millay took a fall down some stairs at her home and broke her neck. She was found eight hours later and it was presumed that she died from a heart attack. Millay was 58 years old.
Edna St. Vincent Millay’s first collection of poetry, “Renascence,” was published in 1917, and it remains to be one of our favorite pieces by Millay to date. Other works that never fail to impress are “Few Figs from Thistles” (1920), “Second April” (1921), “The Ballad of the Harp Weaver” (1922), for which she received the Pulitzer Prize, “Fatal Interview” (1931), “Conversation at Midnight” (1937), and “Make Bright the Arrows” (1940). If we had a nickel for every time we heard a writer say that they were influenced in some way by this incredible poet, we would be very well kept writers indeed.
In addition to the Pulitzer, Millay also received a gold medal from the Poetry Society of America and was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters in 1940.
After her death, her home, Steepletop, was designated as a National Landmark in the seventies and is to this day maintained by the Edna St. Vincent Millay Society. It is also home to the Millay Colony for the Arts which was established in 1973.
Today, remember this unique poetic voice by going out there and living your life with passion and surrounding yourself with beauty, because after all, “beauty is whatever gives you joy”.
“He is not to them what he is to me, I thought: "he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine;—I am sure he is,—I feel akin to him,—I understand the language of his countenance and movements: though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him…Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have, gathers impulsively round him.”—Charlotte Bronte (Jane Eyre)
“No sooner did I see that his attention was riveted on them, and that I might gaze without being observed, than my eyes were drawn involuntarily to his face…I looked, and had an acute pleasure in looking,—a precious, yet poignant pleasure; pure gold, with a steely point of agony: a pleasure like what the thirst-perishing man might feel who knows the well to which he has crept is poisoned, yet stoops and drinks divine draughts nevertheless.”—Charlotte Bronte (Jane Eyre)