Tuesday, February 2, 2010
When I was about thirteen I discovered Sylvia.
In her writing I found a perfect refuge.
A place where the dark beauty of torn words, seemed to echo the yearnings of my teen-age heart.
I read her with a fierce hunger, craving the shadow and edge of her poetry.
I liked to shock passing adults by quoting her liberally, and took to reading A Alverez's, 'The savage god', in the childish belief that it would augment my reputation as an emerging, (ahem) intellectual!
At fifteen I discovered Anais, and in her diaries found a wild, wanton openness that was entirely foreign to the world view of my home.
When Anais declared, that some read to confirm their misery and others to deny it, I resolved to extend my reading, beyond the troubled works of the like of Sylvia, Virginia and Ann!
Still, the dark words call.
And, still, they are so beautiful...
Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with colour and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose names you meditate...
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images should be
grand and classical
Not this troublous
wringing of hands,this dark
ceiling without a star.