The Winter’s Tale, Act 4, Scene 4
A very quick blog post, since I promised I’d upload a copy of my favourite Sylvia Plath poem. This one was written whilst she was pregnant with her son, and so refers to her excitement and love for her unborn child.
“Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark, as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools’ Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.”
“You’re” by Sylvia Plath
I hope you can see why I like this poem; the imagery is so joyful. There are vast numbers of metaphors and similies, not all of them obviously positive: “A creel of eels”, yet they present the perfect image of a fidgeting child, perhaps in the womb. Anyway, I’ll let you make up your own mind about it, but I hope you like it as much as I do.
Longer posts to come soon!