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.  

Barren Woman
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.

Morning Song
by Sylvia Plath

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.

View original post 215 more words


I opened Pandora's box and infertility entered my life.

Tagged with: ,
Posted in Creative Outlet

Share those thoughts bouncing around in your head..

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

Oh, what a power is motherhood, possessing
A potent spell. All women alike
Fight fiercely for a child.

~ Euripides, Iphigenia in Aulis, c. 405 B.C.

Enter your email address to say hello & to receive my crazy ramblings about infertility.

Welcome to the circle of love.

Join 322 other followers

Past scribbles
%d bloggers like this: