Thursday, June 9, 2011

Revised 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


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 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!