I set up the framework for this diary a little ahead of time (really!) and then the siren song of my web dev studies seduced me away again. I haven't found that book of Spanish poetry yet, either, although I HAVE found a number of other books of poetry around and about my disorganized abode. I collected the ones I found into a stack--and then, I finally heard from my younger son, and I'm going to be off to Hawaii for the holidays on Saturday. So, there the pile of poetry books will sit, until I return from the island where the Navy's presence is strongest, which is why my son is there.
Belatedly, then, I'm going to refer you to a selection from Sylvia Plath's Ariel, specifically, "Death & Co.". She had her deep despair, and we have ours, seeing how thoroughly "owned" by the corporatist oligarchs our government is. But, I won't use it here, since a look in the front of the book indicated that the copyright would be defended most vigorously, and although I intend no plagiarism at all, I do not wish to run afoul in any way.
So, instead, I'l share a couple of poems I wrote during my college days in the 1980's that were inspired by her work. Elements of them make me wince a little, reading them now, after all this time, but I'll share them anyway.
Kalliope
Means "beautiful voice" from Greek καλλος (kallos) "beauty" and οψ (ops) "voice". In Greek mythology she was a goddess of epic poetry and eloquence, one of the nine Muses.
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Two Poems Written in Consideration of Sylvia Plath
I.
O Sylvia, Sylvia, you are my sister-soul.
Your story is not my story, nor your reasons mine,
Yet I too have loved death in despair, and sought in it
A refuge.
I have been a zombie since twelve.
Yet the awesome, terrible finality
Of the physical reality
Has frightened me away from the edge.
Perhaps it's only incredible foolishness
But something won't let me let go.
No, no, it's a lie to say "let go."
It's a positive choice; the most negative--
Doesn't come to you; you have to take it.
Is it a crazy love, or hate, that refuses?
Maybe I can't stand the waste;
Can't write myself off as a bad debt,
Too deep to reclaim.
Bankruptcy is not yet my case.
The no-return point is too close, though!
Maybe, it is ever so.
II.
Sister P.
You knew the terror too; the bottomless pit,
But you thrilled in it, like an Indy driver.
I only feel the emptiness, the infinite sorrow,
In giving up.
And I care, I hurt for others.
And that hurt, which condemns me, also saves me.
You hopeless isolate, you couldn't hurt,
And that hurt is too great for any to bear.
I don't wonder it stopped your heart.
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