robert bought me this beautiful book of selected poems by sylvia plath – at first i thought them despairing and vengeful, but on reading them again, i can see the tenderness, truth and clever mind of a talented poet and a woman who felt that she had been wronged.
The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
On their blotter of fog the trees
Seem a botanical drawing—
Memories growing, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.
Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Waist-deep in history—
Full of wings, otherworldliness.
In this, they are Ledas.
O mother of leaves and sweetness
Who are these pietàs?
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing.