Saturday, April 14, 2007

Pardon Me, Poetry

My favorite maternal poem of Sylvia Plath's has always been "Morning Song". It's only recently that I've discovered the one below and once dear intense Sylvia gets through her rant on the evil world (which can sometimes be thrown into harsh relief with the birth of a child -- I felt that with DPJ), the poem becomes so lovely and soft. It is those stanzas I've included below.

Nick and the Candlestick
by Sylvia Plath

The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.

Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs—

The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.

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