Written by
Sylvia Plath |
(1)
This is the sea, then, this great abeyance.
How the sun's poultice draws on my inflammation.
Electrifyingly-colored sherbets, scooped from the freeze
By pale girls, travel the air in scorched hands.
Why is it so quiet, what are they hiding?
I have two legs, and I move smilingly..
A sandy damper kills the vibrations;
It stretches for miles, the shrunk voices
Waving and crutchless, half their old size.
The lines of the eye, scalded by these bald surfaces,
Boomerang like anchored elastics, hurting the owner.
Is it any wonder he puts on dark glasses?
Is it any wonder he affects a black cassock?
Here he comes now, among the mackerel gatherers
Who wall up their backs against him.
They are handling the black and green lozenges like the parts of a body.
The sea, that crystallized these,
Creeps away, many-snaked, with a long hiss of distress.
(2)
This black boot has no mercy for anybody.
Why should it, it is the hearse of a dad foot,
The high, dead, toeless foot of this priest
Who plumbs the well of his book,
The bent print bulging before him like scenery.
Obscene bikinis hid in the dunes,
Breasts and hips a confectioner's sugar
Of little crystals, titillating the light,
While a green pool opens its eye,
Sick with what it has swallowed----
Limbs, images, shrieks. Behind the concrete bunkers
Two lovers unstick themselves.
O white sea-crockery,
What cupped sighs, what salt in the throat....
And the onlooker, trembling,
Drawn like a long material
Through a still virulence,
And a weed, hairy as privates.
(3)
On the balconies of the hotel, things are glittering.
Things, things----
Tubular steel wheelchairs, aluminum crutches.
Such salt-sweetness. Why should I walk
Beyond the breakwater, spotty with barnacles?
I am not a nurse, white and attendant,
I am not a smile.
These children are after something, with hooks and cries,
And my heart too small to bandage their terrible faults.
This is the side of a man: his red ribs,
The nerves bursting like trees, and this is the surgeon:
One mirrory eye----
A facet of knowledge.
On a striped mattress in one room
An old man is vanishing.
There is no help in his weeping wife.
Where are the eye-stones, yellow and vvaluable,
And the tongue, sapphire of ash.
(4)
A wedding-cake face in a paper frill.
How superior he is now.
It is like possessing a saint.
The nurses in their wing-caps are no longer so beautiful;
They are browning, like touched gardenias.
The bed is rolled from the wall.
This is what it is to be complete. It is horrible.
Is he wearing pajamas or an evening suit
Under the glued sheet from which his powdery beak
Rises so whitely unbuffeted?
They propped his jaw with a book until it stiffened
And folded his hands, that were shaking: goodbye, goodbye.
Now the washed sheets fly in the sun,
The pillow cases are sweetening.
It is a blessing, it is a blessing:
The long coffin of soap-colored oak,
The curious bearers and the raw date
Engraving itself in silver with marvelous calm.
(5)
The gray sky lowers, the hills like a green sea
Run fold upon fold far off, concealing their hollows,
The hollows in which rock the thoughts of the wife----
Blunt, practical boats
Full of dresses and hats and china and married daughters.
In the parlor of the stone house
One curtain is flickering from the open window,
Flickering and pouring, a pitiful candle.
This is the tongue of the dead man: remember, remember.
How far he is now, his actions
Around him like livingroom furniture, like a décor.
As the pallors gather----
The pallors of hands and neighborly faces,
The elate pallors of flying iris.
They are flying off into nothing: remember us.
The empty benches of memory look over stones,
Marble facades with blue veins, and jelly-glassfuls of daffodils.
It is so beautiful up here: it is a stopping place.
(6)
The natural fatness of these lime leaves!----
Pollarded green balls, the trees march to church.
The voice of the priest, in thin air,
Meets the corpse at the gate,
Addressing it, while the hills roll the notes of the dead bell;
A glittler of wheat and crude earth.
What is the name of that color?----
Old blood of caked walls the sun heals,
Old blood of limb stumps, burnt hearts.
The widow with her black pocketbook and three daughters,
Necessary among the flowers,
Enfolds her lace like fine linen,
Not to be spread again.
While a sky, wormy with put-by smiles,
Passes cloud after cloud.
And the bride flowers expend a fershness,
And the soul is a bride
In a still place, and the groom is red and forgetful, he is featureless.
(7)
Behind the glass of this car
The world purrs, shut-off and gentle.
And I am dark-suited and stil, a member of the party,
Gliding up in low gear behind the cart.
And the priest is a vessel,
A tarred fabric,sorry and dull,
Following the coffin on its flowery cart like a beautiful woman,
A crest of breasts, eyelids and lips
Storming the hilltop.
Then, from the barred yard, the children
Smell the melt of shoe-blacking,
Their faces turning, wordless and slow,
Their eyes opening
On a wonderful thing----
Six round black hats in the grass and a lozenge of wood,
And a naked mouth, red and awkward.
For a minute the sky pours into the hole like plasma.
There is no hope, it is given up.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
CANZONE XIX. S' il dissi mai, ch' i' venga in odio a quella. HE VEHEMENTLY REBUTS THE CHARGE OF LOVING ANOTHER. Perdie! I said it not,Nor never thought to do:As well as I, ye wotI have no power thereto.And if I did, the lotThat first did me enchainMay never slake the knot,But strait it to my pain. And if I did, each thingThat may do harm or woe,[Pg 184]Continually may wringMy heart, where so I go!Report may always ringOf shame on me for aye,If in my heart did springThe words that you do say. And if I did, each starThat is in heaven above,May frown on me, to marThe hope I have in love!And if I did, such warAs they brought unto Troy,Bring all my life afarFrom all his lust and joy! And if I did so say,The beauty that me boundIncrease from day to day,More cruel to my wound!With all the moan that mayTo plaint may turn my song;My life may soon decay,Without redress, by wrong! If I be clear from thought,Why do you then complain?Then is this thing but soughtTo turn my heart to pain.Then this that you have wrought,You must it now redress;Of right, therefore, you oughtSuch rigour to repress. And as I have deserved,So grant me now my hire;You know I never swerved,You never found me liar.For Rachel have I served,For Leah cared I never;And her I have reservedWithin my heart for ever. Wyatt. [Pg 185] If I said so, may I be hated byHer on whose love I live, without which I should die—If I said so, my days be sad and short,May my false soul some vile dominion court.If I said so, may every star to meBe hostile; round me growPale fear and jealousy;And she, my foe,As cruel still and cold as fair she aye must be. If I said so, may Love upon my heartExpend his golden shafts, on her the leaden dart;Be heaven and earth, and God and man my foe,And she still more severe if I said so:If I said so, may he whose blind lights leadMe straightway to my grave,Trample yet worse his slave,Nor she behaveGentle and kind to me in look, or word, or deed. If I said so, then through my brief life mayAll that is hateful block my worthless weary way:If I said so, may the proud frost in theeGrow prouder as more fierce the fire in me:If I said so, no more then may the warmSun or bright moon be view'd,Nor maid, nor matron's form,But one dread stormSuch as proud Pharaoh saw when Israel he pursued. If I said so, despite each contrite sigh,Let courtesy for me and kindly feeling die:If I said so, that voice to anger swell,Which was so sweet when first her slave I fell:If I said so, I should offend whom I,E'en from my earliest breathUntil my day of death,Would gladly take,Alone in cloister'd cell my single saint to make. But if I said not so, may she who first,In life's green youth, my heart to hope so sweetly nursed,Deign yet once more my weary bark to guideWith native kindness o'er the troublous tide;[Pg 186]And graceful, grateful, as her wont before,When, for I could no more,My all, myself I gave,To be her slave,Forget not the deep faith with which I still adore. I did not, could not, never would say so,For all that gold can give, cities or courts bestow:Let truth, then, take her old proud seat on high,And low on earth let baffled falsehood lie.Thou know'st me, Love! if aught my state withinBelief or care may win,Tell her that I would callHim blest o'er allWho, doom'd like me to pine, dies ere his strife begin. Rachel I sought, not Leah, to secure,Nor could I this vain life with other fair endure,And, should from earth Heaven summon her again,Myself would gladly dieFor her, or with her, whenElijah's fiery car her pure soul wafts on high. Macgregor.
|