stands its season
ripe
as the depictions painted
outlive nature's generosity
tend as lovers do
to forget
their fragility
handling flesh like swords
conquering the earth with passion's
brevity
just as the reaper swipes
his scythe ruthlessly
and the chaff
falls like fallen soldiers do
into dirt
as we all do

Now they want to make a film
For anyone lacking the ability
To imagine the body, head in oven,
Orphaning children

[...] they think
I should give them my mother's words
To fill the mouth of their monster,
Their Sylvia Suicide Doll

of a poem?
tell me before I go on ranting
living passionate
dying day after day in rejections
is there a parallel in nature?
The nest perhaps
and the bee worker
hurrying
feeding one Queen the importance
does that mean
all those stings are less?

Sylvia Plath, 1932 - 1963

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival.  New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety.  We stand round blankly as walls.

I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses.  I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s.  The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars.  And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

nothing in life can be
scaled  weighed unless it is a commodity
gold silver wheat
nothing will ever balance the scales
of the ultimate difference
men and women
this can not be ever viewed as
balancing the scales in totality
women are the  only ones who conceive
men are the casters  the pollen
it is what drove Sylvia wild