Sylvia Plath

The Eye-Mote


Blameless as daylight I stood looking
At a field of horses, necks bent, manes blown,
Tails streaming against the green
Backdrop of sycamores. Sun was striking
White chapel pinnacles over the roofs,
Holding the horses, the clouds, the leaves

Steadily rooted though they were all flowing
Away to the left like reeds in a sea
When the splinter flew in and stuck my eye,
Needling it dark. Then I was seeing
A melding of shapes in a hot rain:
Horses warped on the altering green,

Outlandish as double-humped camels or unicorns,
Grazing at the margins of a bad monochrome,
Beasts of oasis, a better time.
Abrading my lid, the small grain burns:
Red cinder around which I myself,
Horses, planets and spires revolve.

Neither tears nor the easing flush
Of eyebaths can unseat the speck:
It sticks, and it has stuck a week:
I wear the present itch for flesh,
Blind to what will be and what was.
I dream that I am Oedipus.

What I want back is what I was
Before the bed, before the knife,
Before the brooch-pin and the salve
Fixed me in this parenthesis;
Horses fluent in the wind,
A place, a time gone out of mind.

best cake ever

I don't know if I could bring myself to stick a knife in a cake this awesome.

I meant to post this before

I reviewed Nick Flynn's The Captain Asks for a Show of Hands for the current issue of Pebble Lake Review. Click here to read it.

summer camp

I'm going to be a poetry waiter at Bread Loaf this summer! Pray to the gods that I don't trip and spill coffee into some esteemed faculty member's lap.

lost & found

An 1845 illustration from the Illustrated London News of HMS Erebus and HMS Terror

Franklin's Lost Expedition: ". . .Originally built as “bomb vessels” that could absorb the recoil from mortar firing, their stout, wide shape made them good candidates for trafficking in ice, and they had been further modified—with triple-thick sailing canvas, double-thick decks, double-planked hulls, and oak beams fore and aft below—for polar conditions. For Franklin's trip, each had been fitted with a 20-hp steam engine and propeller, to help navigate ice in difficult wind and windless conditions—an innovation for an Arctic vessel.

In early July, in Disko Bay on the west coast of Greenland, the ships took on their last supplies from a transport ship, giving them three years' worth of provisions. Richard Cyriax, historian of the Franklin expedition, has extensively detailed the specifics of these; in his estimate, each ship carried roughly 30 tons of flour, eight tons of beef (in eight-lb. sections), 2500 gallons of concentrated soup, two tons of chocolate, two tons of lemon juice, and more than a ton of tobacco, among many other stores. With the supply ship, some letters were sent home, as well as five men deemed “unfit.” Two English whalers, the Enterprise and Prince of Wales, encountered the expedition on July 28th in Baffin Bay near Lancaster Sound: all was well. From there, the two ships and their crews (a total of 129 men) disappeared from sight.

Anxiety replaced anticipation after the winter of 1846-1847 passed without word from or about the expedition. Urged on by Franklin's indefatigable wife, Lady Jane Franklin, the Admiralty ultimately instigated a three-pronged search effort: by land, down the Mackenzie or Coppermine River to the coast; from the Pacific, via Bering Strait; and from the east, through Lancaster Sound. Lady Franklin also used her personal resources to fund additional efforts, and she persuaded the United States to enter the hunt as well. In all, from 1848 to 1859, thirty-two search expeditions sought the fate of the Franklin expedition. What was found?

Found is a relative term here, for all of the evidence was (and remains) circumstantial. What is known is that Franklin commanded the best-equipped British Navy expedition ever sent into the Arctic, and its disappearance occasioned “a series of relief and search expeditions, both public and private, English and American, which has no parallel in maritime annals, and which, while prosecuting the main object of the voyages, turned the map of the Arctic regions north of America from a blank void into a grim but distinct representation of islands, straits, and seas.”

recovered medicine chest

newspaper report for found artifacts

“The Lost Arctic Voyagers.”
Dr. Rae may be considered to have established, by the mute but solemn testimony of the relics he has brought home, that Sir John Franklin and his party are no more. But, there is one passage in his melancholy report, some examination into the probabilities and improbabilities of which, we hope will tend to the consolation of those who take the nearest and dearest interest in the fate of that unfortunate expedition, by leading to the conclusion that there is no reason whatever to believe, that any of its members prolonged their existence by the dreadful expedient of eating the bodies of their dead companions. [Charles Dickens, Household Words, no. 245, 2 December 1854]

1894, Lat. 81 degrees 40' N.; long. 2 degrees E.

A glorious sunset, which made the great fields of ice look like a 
lake of blood. . .The night was very dark--so dark that, standing under the quarter-boat, I was unable to see the officer upon the bridge. I think I have already mentioned the extraordinary silence which prevails in these frozen seas. In other parts of the world, be they ever so barren, there is some slight vibration of the air--some faint hum, be it from the distant haunts of men, or from the leaves of the trees, or the wings of the birds, or even the faint rustle of the grass that covers the ground. One may not actively perceive the sound, and yet if it were withdrawn it would be missed. It is only here in these Arctic seas that stark, unfathomable stillness obtrudes itself upon you in all its gruesome reality. You find your tympanum straining to catch some little murmur, and dwelling eagerly upon every accidental sound within the vessel. . .At first it was only a vague darkness against the white ice, but as we raced along together it took the shape of a man, and eventually of the man of whom we were in search. He was lying face downwards upon a frozen bank. Many little crystals of ice and feathers of snow had drifted on to him as he lay, and sparkled upon his dark seaman's jacket. As we came up some wandering puff of wind caught these tiny flakes in its vortex, and they whirled up into the air, partially descended again, and then, caught once more in the current, sped rapidly away in the direction of the sea. To my eyes it seemed but a snow-drift, but many of my companions averred that it started up in the shape of a woman, stooped over the corpse and kissed it, and then hurried away across the floe. I have learned never to ridicule any man's opinion, however strange it may seem. --from "The Captain of the Pole-Star" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

beautiful, extinct

things that are adorable, part 1

This was a moment of lightness on Tax Day:



Penguins are ticklish, apparently.

Today was a terrible day. And so I bring you writers...& their kitties!

Observe:



It's Mark Twain & an adorable kitten!



It's William Carlos Williams & three adorable kittens!




Hemingway literally writing & petting his cat at the same time!

Many more here.

process

James Salter's outline for Light Years:

The Notebooks of Leonardo Da Vinci

Leonardo Da Vinci on perspective:

Every body in light and shade fills the surrounding air with infinite images of itself; and these, by infinite pyramids diffused in the air, represent this body throughout space and on every side. Each pyramid that is composed of a long assemblage of rays includes within itself an infinite number of pyramids and each has the same power as all, and all as each. A circle of equidistant pyramids of vision will give to their object angles of equal size; and an eye at each point will see the object of the same size. The body of the atmosphere is full of infinite pyramids composed of radiating straight lines, which are produced from the surface of the bodies in light and shade, existing in the air; and the farther they are from the object which produces them the more acute they become and although in their distribution they intersect and cross they never mingle together, but pass through all the surrounding air, independently converging, spreading, and diffused. And they are all of equal power [and value]; all equal to each, and each equal to all. By these the images of objects are transmitted through all space and in every direction, and each pyramid, in itself, includes, in each minutest part, the whole form of the body causing it. . .Just as the stone thrown into the water becomes the center and cause of various circles, and the sound made in the air spreads out in circles, so every body placed within the luminous air diffuses itself in circles and fills the surroundings with an infinite number of images of itself.



Leonardo Da Vinci explains how to represent a tempest:

If you wish to represent a tempest consider and arrange well its effects as seen, when the wind, blowing over the face of the sea and earth, removes and carries with it such things as are not fixed to the general mass. And to represent the storm accurately you must first show the clouds scattered and torn, and flying with the wind, accompanied by clouds of sand blown up from the sea shore, and boughs and leaves swept along by the strength and fury of the blast and scattered with other light objects through the air. Trees and plants must be bent to the ground, almost as if they would follow the course of the gale, with their branches twisted out of their natural growth and their leaves tossed and turned about. Of the men who are there some must have fallen to the ground and be entangled in their garments, and hardly to be recognized for the dust, while those who remain standing may be behind some tree, with their arms round it that the wind may not tear them away; others with their hands over their eyes for the dust, bending to the ground with their clothes and hair streaming in the wind. Let the sea be rough and tempestuous and full of foam whirled among the lofty waves, while the wind flings the lighter spray through the stormy air, till it resembles a dense and swathing mist. Of the ships that are therein some should be shown with rent sails and the tatters fluttering through the air, with ropes broken and masts split and fallen. And the ship itself lying in the trough of the sea and wrecked by the fury of the waves with the men shrieking and clinging to the fragments of the vessel. Make the clouds driven by the impetuosity of the wind and flung against the lofty mountain tops, and wreathed and torn like waves beating upon rocks; the air itself terrible from the deep darkness caused by the dust and fog and heavy clouds.

Nightfishing


The kitchen's old-fashioned planter's clock portrays
A smiling moon as it dips down below
Two hemispheres, stars numberless as days,
And peas, tomatoes, onions, as they grow
Under that happy sky; but though the sands
Of time put on this vegetable disguise,
The clock covers its face with long, thin hands.
Another smiling moon begins to rise.

We drift in the small rowboat an hour before
Morning begins, the lake weeds grown so long
They touch the surface, tangling in an oar.
You've brought coffee, cigars, and me along.
You sit still, like a monument in a hall,
Watching for trout. A bat slices the air
Near us, I shriek, you look at me, that's all,
One long sobering look, a smile everywhere
But on your mouth. The mighty hills shriek back.
You turn back to the hake, chuckle, and clamp
Your teeth on your cigar. We watch the black
Water together. Our tennis shoes are damp.
Something moves on your thoughtful face, recedes.
Here, for the first time ever, I see how,
Just as a fish lurks deep in water weeds,
A thought of death will lurk deep down, will show
One eye, then quietly disappear in you.
It's time to go. Above the hills I see
The faint moon slowly dipping out of view,
Sea of Tranquillity, Sea of Serenity,
Ocean of Storms... You start to row, the boat
Skimming the lake where light begins to spread.
You stop the oars, midair. We twirl and float.

I'm in the kitchen. You are three days dead.
A smiling moon rises on fertile ground,
White stars and vegetables. The sky is blue.
Clock hands sweep by it all, they twirl around,
Pushing me, oarless, from the shore of you.

--Gjertrud Schnackenberg

An archived Elizabeth Bishop interview from the Paris Review here.

~

Her first memory: I remember my mother taking me for a ride on the swan boats here in Boston. I think I was three then. It was before we went back to Canada. Mother was dressed all in black—widows were in those days. She had a box of mixed peanuts and raisins. There were real swans floating around. I don’t think they have them anymore. A swan came up and she fed it and it bit her finger. Maybe she just told me this, but I believed it because she showed me her black kid glove and said, “See.” The finger was split. Well, I was thrilled to death! Robert Lowell put those swan boats in two or three of the Lord Weary’s Castle poems.

~

The Joseph Cornell boxes she loved:

~

& then her translation of the poem by Octavio Paz, which she also mentions:

Objects and Apparitions



Hexagons of wood and glass,
scarcely bigger than a shoe box,
with room in them for night and all it's lights.

Monuments to every moment,
refuse of every moment, used:
cages for infinity.

Marbles, buttons, thimbles, dice,
pins, stamps, and glass beads:
tales of time.

Memory weaves, unweaves the echoes:
in the four corners of the box
shadowless ladies play at hide and seek.

Fire buried in the mirror,
water sleeping in the agate:
solos of Jenny Colonne and Jenny Lind.

"One has to commit a painting," said Degas,
"the way one commits a crime." But you contructed
boxes where things hurry away from their names.

Slot machine of visions,
condensation flask for conversations,
hotel of crickets and constellations.

Minimal, incoherent fragments:
the opposite of History, creator of ruins,
out of your ruins you have made creations.

Theater of the spirits:
objects putting the laws
of identity through hoops.

The "Grand Hotel de la Couronne": in a vial,
the three of clubs and, very surprised,
Thumbelina in gardens of reflections.

A comb is a harp strummed by the glance
of a little girl
born dumb.

The reflector of the inner eye
scatters the spectacle:
God all alone above an extinct world.

The apparitions are manifest,
their bodies weigh less than light,
lasting as this phrase lasts.

Joseph Cornell: inside your boxes
my words became visible for a moment.

this is unreal

A mid-winter glow, Weddell Sea, showing Endurance, 1915.

These are Frank Hurley’s famous early colour photographs of Sir Ernest Shackleton’s ill-fated ‘Endurance’ voyage, as part of the British Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition, 1914-1917. Hurley was the official photographer on the expedition.

Early in 1915, their ship ‘Endurance’ became inexorably trapped in the Antarctic ice. Hurley managed to salvage the photographic plates by diving into mushy ice-water inside the sinking ship in October 1915.

—State Library of New South Wales

More amazingness here.

This is a picture I took one summer in Oregon. I had been riding my bike alongside some flowered bushes & a bee stung my foot. Feivel kept me company while I lay on the couch & complained about it.

The Promise of Nostos


The sea is not bent on circularity: it says Here is an island,
anchor here.
_________But because love waits, the broken hull
is soon patched, a torn sail sewn to hold the wind,
and then once again they set course. The uncalled for jubilance
of departure, feigned tears, the make-believe dream
where so-and-so appeared to say fly away home.
They do not leave for home. They do not leave to return,
despite their promises. They leave to leave, and if I love them
it's because they come hungry as a dream, and like a dream
their stay distills a life, or what a life could be--

--Jessica Fisher

Reading list:

The Voyage of Saint Brendan
The First Voyage Around the World 1519-1522, Pigafetta (w/ Magellan)
Observations Made During a Voyage Round the World 1772-1775, John Reinold Forster (w/ Captain Cook)
The Arctic Whaling Journals of Wiliam Scoresby the Younger 1814-1816
Journal of a Voyage Around the World 1841-1842, Thomas Worthington King

*


An entry from the Pigafetta:

[44] The Antarctic Pole is not so starry as the Arctic. Many small stars clustered together are seen, which have the appearance of two clouds with little distance between them, and they are somewhat dim; in the midst of them are two large and not very luminous stars, which move only slightly: those two stars are the Antarctic Pole. Our loadstone, although it moved here and there, always pointed toward its own Arctic Pole, although it did not have so much strength as on its own side, and on that account when we were in that open expanse, the captain-general asked all the pilots: 'Are you still sailing forward in the course that we laid down on the maps?' All replied: 'By your course exactly as laid down.' He answered them that they were pointing wrongly, which was a fact, and that it would be fitting to adjust the compass, for it was receiving so much force from its side. When we were in the midst of that open expanse, we saw a cross with five extremely bright stars straight toward the west, those stars being exactly placed in relation to one another.

my horse my hound

Question


Body my house
my horse my hound
what will I do
when you are fallen

Where will I sleep
How will I ride
What will I hunt

Where can I go
without my mount
all eager and quick
How will I know
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure
when Body my good
bright dog is dead

How will it be
to lie in the sky
without roof or door
and wind for an eye

With cloud for shift
how will I hide?

--May Swenson

E.D.

CXXXIX.

TO pile like Thunder to its close,
Then crumble grand away,
While everything created hid–
This would be Poetry:
Or Love,–the two coeval came–
We both and neither prove,
Experience either, and consume–
For none see God and live.

from This Lamentable City, one of the many books purchased at AWP

Conjunction And

We met on a Sunday, no not exactly,
we met before, but it wasn’t that either:
you drank coffee through a straw but it was more like
a poor bird stopping in to see a horse in a coat
and you took me by the took me by the took me by the hand
and a tree with red berries and mountains and mountains
and we laughed and listened and Lord everything was bullshit
and the tree with its red berries and its bark and its bark
and we had each other like beasts without pausing
and if everything after the fact is sad we are not things
and we came from garbage and we played with garbage
and you caressed my skin with the seeds of pearls. Now it’s January
already and over us, pardon me, pink magnolias with their dog tongues
on the grey background of old snow have bloomed, and every time I pass
among these miracles I remember the smell of your hand
torn from me, and torn from you.

— Polina Barskova, translated by Ilya Kaminsky with Matthew Zapruder

"It seems to me to be a process of looking for something in there, rather than having something and revising it. I don't consider that I really have anything yet--except inchoate mess. As I work on it, I'm always trying to hear the sound of the words, and trying to take out everything that doesn't feel alive. That's my goal: to take out everything that doesn't feel alive."

--Jean Valentine, on writing & revising

The Virgin Spring (1960)

+

"You see how the smoke trembles up near the hole in the roof? As if whimpering and afraid. Yet it’s only going out into the open air, where it has the whole sky to tumble about in. But it doesn’t know that. So it cowers and trembles under the sooty ridge of the roof. People are the same way. They worry and tremble like leaves in a storm, because of what they know and what they don’t know. You shall cross a narrow plank, so narrow you can't find your footing. Below you roars a great river. It's black and wants to swallow you, but you pass over it unharmed. Before you lies a chasm, so deep you can't see the bottom. Hands grope for you, but they can't reach you. At last you stand before a mountain of terror. It spews fire like a furnace, and a vast abyss opens at its feet. A thousand colors blaze there: copper and iron, blue vitriol and yellow sulfur. Flames dazzle and flash and lash at the rocks. And all about, men leap and writhe, small as ants, for this is the furnace that swallows murderers and evildoers. But at the very moment you think you're doomed, a hand shall grasp you and an arm circle around you, and you'll be taken far away, where evil no longer has power over you."