Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Dan Cardoza writes

For Sylvia Plath

In the Moon And the Yew Tree, you pointed the dying light of your heart toward the nights, slate board of gloom.

All those dark trees & wind knotted branches, clawing their way, relentlessly, upward.

Your moon, how can we forget, that terrible white parchment, stuck in those dark branches.

Confined in your own perpetual midnight church of pain, you pressed your flat porcelain palms against cold granite walls, stumbling forward, seeking the relief of escape.

It was not to be, your tortured search, published in all those posthumous reviews, your every thought & emotion analyzed, with thousands of interpretations. Autopsied after death; scapel/verb, adjective/bone-saw, toothed forceps/noun.

And all those intellectuals, fingering pages of your darker interpretations, second guessing your life & art; their searching, a counterfeit braile of sorts, feeling for the textures of your dead thoughts. Now, you sleep in the green grasses, you feared no longer unloading their grief on your swollen, porcelain blue feet.

Now the "eight great tongues" still ring, clouds flower over godless nights, your pain an open hinge in the pale of eternity; the blackness & silence is defining.  



Self-Portrait in Semi-Abstract Style -- Sylvia Plath

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