How many have stood,
will stand beside you
in Heptonstall,
had a photo taken
next to her spot?
Students, admirers
from any nook or cranny
with drained biros,
Ariel under an arm,
her morning song spoken
again, and again.
You're the next-door neighbours
they haven't come to see.
Only a lonely cup
of coffee-stained
hunchbacked flowers
where you lie
in loving memory,
with Emily,
husband with wife,
home to the right
of the graveyard's star.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
How many have stood,
will stand beside you
in Heptonstall,
had a photo taken
next to her spot?
Students, admirers
from any nook or cranny
with drained biros,
Ariel under an arm,
her morning song spoken
again, and again.
You're the next-door neighbours
they haven't come to see.
Only a lonely cup
of coffee-stained
hunchbacked flowers
where you lie
in loving memory,
with Emily,
husband with wife,
home to the right
of the graveyard's star.
Written: March 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time (a work in progress) and the FINAL piece that may be considered for my third-year university dissertation regarding Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.
Sylvia Plath is buried in Heptonstall, Yorkshire, England. Located on the right is the grave of Horace Draper, who died 9th September 1963, aged 61. He is buried with his wife, Emily Draper. This poem stemmed from the fact that most people are likely to visit Hepstonstall to see Plath's grave and leave mementos - but how many visit Horace and Emily's grave right next door? The ending of the poem (while one may say is true), is meant to bring a slight pang of sadness, at how they do not receive as much attention.
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