Thursday, June 9, 2011

Revised Sylvia

Sylvia

Like her, I know
the flatness of men,
the urgent sounds of beehives.

Like her, spiraling
down and down.
Falling like Alice;
the madness swirls
beneath me; and I,
always clinging
to a flimsy rope,
a lifeline;
yet ever closer.

And from the grave I hear her
whisper to
take the plunge,
finish the fall.
At the bottom is
the raging river where
I seek the language and
let the words go and go and go.

Hard won sanity shivers.


Deb O''Brien

3 comments:

Victoria said...

Very striking poem, dragonfly. I have to guess the Sylvia is Sylvia Plath. Not that long ago I read her bio and what a descent it was. So often poetry and mental illness seem to join hands. I suppose that's a function of feeling so deeply.

Brian Miller said...

wow nice intensity....love the river of words....where you let go...nice invocation of plath as well in this...i think at times we all dance a bit close to that madness...

Mary said...

Sometimes I think we are all on the edge at one time or another......and looking at that raging river!