|Hope of a Condemned Man II by Joan Miro|
No use, no use, now, begging Recognize!
There is nothing to do with such a beautiful blank but smooth it.
Name, house, car keys,
The little toy wife—
Erased, sigh, sigh.
Four babies and a cocker!
Nurses the size of worms and a minute doctor
Tuck him in.
Peel from his skin.
Down the drain with all of it!
Hugging his pillow
Like the red-headed sister he never dared to touch,
He dreams of a new one—
Barren, the lot are barren!
And of another color.
How they'll travel, travel, travel, scenery
Sparking off their brother-sister rears
A comet tail!
And money the sperm fluid of it all.
One nurse brings in
A green drink, one a blue.
They rise on either side of him like stars.
The two drinks flame and foam.
O sister, mother, wife,
Sweet Lethe is my life.
I am never, never, never coming home!
Plath, S. (2004). Ariel: The restored edition. New York: HarperCollins Publishers. All rights reserved.
Good day, poets! I hope you all are doing fine in your different parts of the world. I have been thinking about the condition of the world that we live in and where we are headed. In that context, reading Sylvia Plath doesn't provide a very hopeful image. But I go back to Ariel when everything stops making sense and I find my individuality embellished in the collective. Which are the poetry collections/poems/poets that you find yourself reading over and over again, especially when nothing else seems to work?
This is Anmol (alias HA) and I welcome you all to the Tuesday Platform at this Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. As many of you would know, it's an open link platform, which means that you can add a link to one poem, old or new, in the linking widget down below. After adding your link, do not forget to visit others' posts and share your words/comments with them. It's always been a pleasure hosting at this platform and reading your inspiring work.
I will see you all on the trail and I wish you a great week ahead.
If I am incarnated I'd like to be Sylvia Plath's twin sister. She was one year and three days older than me. She is buried at Primrose Hill, I'd go there to die if I could get back. One last look at London, then Good night. She watched her father dying when she was eight. It took my dad two years to die at age 97, confined then to either his wheelchair or to his bed, interchangeable by use of a machine lift. Those two last years he didn't know. Us, maybe himself.
Thank you, Anmol, for sharing this Plath jewel with us. I may write of my dad in a bit.
Sylvia Plath's work is amazing.thanks for this gem, Anmol. And for hosting. Jim, i look forward to reading about your dad.
Thank you for hosting, Anmol
Hello all, I have been away too much lately... but I will try to catch up as much as I can.
I link up a poem I just wrote, and also have some greetings from a poet that some of you might remember.
I'm glad that the Plath piece worked for you — I like the idea of that incarnation.
I look forward to reading your poem, Jim. :-)
Good to see you here, Sherry. Will be paying a visit shortly. :-)
It's my pleasure, Kerry. Looking forward to reading your verse. :-)
I remember we did a challenge based around her I think... I put a positive spin on it, believe it or not and it still sounded a bit like her. Wasn't an easy challenge. :)
I will be back later tonight to visit and comment.
Rob Kistner - I commented on your poem but I don't think it accepted it... I used to be able to! Sorry.
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