Later when I’m home, I’ll post my poem. I’m no Plath but I wrote it a year ago when the pain was raw and I was struggling to stand.
With Mother’s Day just past, I’ve had two Sylvia Plath poems on my mind. They are such extreme contrasts in so many ways but there are also links and connections that fascinate me, particularly the imagery of a woman as a museum that may, or may not, be populated with statues.
By Sylvia Plath
Empty, I echo to the least footfall,
Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas.
In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself,
Nun-hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies
Exhale their pallor like scent.
I imagine myself with a great public,
Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos.
Instead, the dead injure me with attentions, and nothing can happen.
The moon lays a hand on my forehead,
Blank-faced and mum as a nurse.
by Sylvia Plath
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
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