Here's a stanza from Sylvia Plath's "Blackberrying"
"Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks—
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end."
Oh BTW she was a bit of a drawer or drawyer, such as this one:
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end."
Her writing does not have the dark veneer of some of the other writers in this series, but in a way it's more so and despairing; they don't teach giving flies top billing in creative writing - "hanging their bluegreen bellies..."
Oh BTW she was a bit of a drawer or drawyer, such as this one:
No comments:
Post a Comment