POPPIES IN JULY
—Sylvia Plath
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.
A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!
There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?
If I could bleed, or sleep!—
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!
Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.
But colourless. Colourless.
_______________________
Sounds like the heat was getting to Sylvia, too...
•••Tonight (7/19), 6:30-8 PM: South Natomas Urban Voices presents Song Kowbell, Terrill & Eric, Rhony Bhopla, hosted by BL Kennedy. South Natomas Library, 2901 Truxel Rd., Sac. Free.
•••Then later tonight (7/19), at 9 PM: Open-mic poetry by local artists at Capitol Garage, 1500 K St., Sac., $5. Info: 916-444-3633.
You might as well go to both— it's too hot to sleep, anyway.
Hardpan Deadline 8/15:
The second issue of the new Modesto poetry journal, Hardpan, is accepting submissions; deadline is August 15. No line limit. Open subject. e or mail: hardpanpoetry@sbcglobal.net ...or p.o. box 1065, Modesto, CA 95353.
Three more of Sylvie's—all with mirrors:
YEARS
—Sylvia Plath
They enter as animals from the outer
Space of holly where spikes
Are not the thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi,
But greenness, darkness so pure
They freeze and are.
O God, I am not like you
In your vacuous black,
Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti.
Eternity bores me,
I never wanted it.
What I love is
The piston in motion—
My soul dies before it.
And the hooves of the horses,
Their merciless churn.
And you, great Stasis—
What is so great in that?
Is it a tiger this year, this roar at the door?
Is it a Christus,
The awful
God-bit in hiim
Dying to fly and be done with it?
The blood berries are themselves, they are very still.
The hooves will not have it,
In blue distance the pistons hiss.
________________________
MORNING
—Sylvia Plath
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.
________________________
KINDNESS
—Sylvia Plath
Kindness glides about my house.
Dame Kindness, she is so nice!
The blue and red jewels of her rings smoke
In the windows, the mirrors
Are filling with smiles.
What is so real as the cry of a child?
A rabbit's cry may be wilder
But it has no soul.
Sugar can cure everthing, so Kindness says.
Sugar is a necessary fluid,
Its crystals a little poultice.
O kindness, kindness
Sweetly picking up pieces!
My Japanese silks, desperate butterflies,
May be pinned any minute, anaesthetized.
And here you come, with a cup of tea
Wreathed in steam.
The blood jet is poetry,
There is no stopping it.
You hand me two children, two roses.
_______________________
Be cool.
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)