". . . little shall I grace my cause

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver . . ."

(William Shakespeare's Othello, I.iii.88-90)

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

"Child"

I've always liked this poem by Sylvia Plath. Lately as I seem to be struggling with more moodiness than usual I find myself personally identifying with it. I look into the clear eyes of my beautiful children and want to be the kind of mother that fills those eyes with "color and ducks" and things "grand and classical"--not my own "troublous wringing of hands."

(To my friends and family: don't worry, I'm only identifying with the poem, not the poet!)

Child

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose name you meditate --
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.

2 comments:

elephantschild said...

troublous.

What a grand language English is, that we can coin words and have everyone understand exactly what we mean!

Cheryl said...

Yes. And that word is so perfect that it didn't even strike me as a coinage. Grand language, great poetry!