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The Poetess of Heptonstall

This high, half-hidden, churchyard Where coldness and rain find a home And the nightfall is welcomed at twilight's end. The lament of the deafened, defining the dusk, And complecting its blanket, a chilled shielding shroud ~ A poet lies sleeping alone in her cot. But verses are silently wrested away Brilliantly noiseless not rhyming nor free: And how the wind whistles here all about. Then, strangely, disturbing the shadowless eve A voice, a beseeching, may softly be heard. O' Sylvia, Sylvia, why for art thou here?

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Jeff Kyser

Date: 8/26/2022 9:10:00 AM

This is unusual - ethereal and haunting, I like it!

Alan Jeeves
Date: 8/26/2022 11:58:00 AM

Heptonstall is a tiny village near my home here in the hills of Yorkshire, England. Sylvia was... Well! I guess you all know who Sylvia was. Hi Jeff, I appreciate you looking in on Heptonstall. I tried to write this short piece in the style Sylvia's husband, UK Poet Laureate Ted Hughes, sometimes used. The story of Sylvia Plath (one of your own nation's poetic daughters) is such a sad one, I think. She now lies near my home though, such a long way from her home, an Atlantic width apart. Yet, I believe she really loved our Heptonstall and so, in many ways she IS home. Kind regards, Alan

Constance La France

Date: 8/26/2022 8:12:00 AM

Alan, your poem is excellent and has a very dreamy quality ~

Alan Jeeves
Date: 8/26/2022 12:03:00 PM

Heptonstall is a tiny village near my home here in the hills of Yorkshire, England. Sylvia was... Well! I guess you all know who Sylvia was. Hello Constance. I am pleased that you enjoyed my poem. Visiting the resting place of Sylvia Plath is awe inspiring, it encourages one to think of poetry. To that end she did not die in vain. Best wishes to you and your great country. Kind regards, Alan.