"rasing" poems
for Sylvia Plath
O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons,
with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,
with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,
(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about rasing potatoes
and keeping bees?)
what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?
Thief --
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny *******
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,
how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy
to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib,
and since that time he waited
under our heart, our cupboard,
and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides
and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,
(And me,
me too.
And now, Sylvia,
you again
with death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,
what is your death
but an old belonging,
a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?
(O friend,
while the moon's bad,
and the king's gone,
and the queen's at her wit's end
the bar fly ought to sing!)
O tiny mother,
you too!
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!
6.2k
My heart rasing
body quivering
my anxiaty rising
I need someone
to calm me down
but I can't say it
I'm tearing up
I wipe my eyes
but more fall
they look at me
my breath ragged
I feel like I'm gonna die
help me
please
can you see
my frightened words
as I scream
can you hear
my scared voice
Through my eyes
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
It is possible
for grammar to-
be a mistake ... sometimes
words are
NEVER perfect
I type,
text
errors
true words,
though
run like a stream
FLOWING
from my brain
BUT
this brain
my brain
had been
under construction
for all
my entire being
words
were born in here
in my brain
developed
collecting
images
from my....
surroundings
elevation
no conclusion
BUT
I was counting
scrambling numbers
poor additions
about life
adding, nothing
NOT YET.... no method
salvation
with a bit
of seizure
relying on them
to save me
deppening on them
to revive a tune
to make these mistakes
look pretty???
There are
many languages devided
= many errors in
perfect grammar
+
the ones with gutts
rasing amo
graph-ic-assurence
firing reprisal
______________________=
unique insignifacance
intellect that does not belong
to the world
it is possible
for mistakes
to be a grammar
unexplained
not understanding
why I have to prove
perfection
when
there is no such existance
in humen kind.
© The Madd Hatteress
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC