Stasis in darkness. Then the substanceless blue Pour of tor and distances.
God's lioness, How one we grow, Pivot of heels and knees! -- The furrow
Splits and passes, sister to The brown arc Of the neck I cannot catch,
Nigger-eye Berries cast dark Hooks --
Black sweet blood mouthfuls, Shadows. Something else
Hauls methrough air -- Thighs, hair; Flakes from my heels.
White Godiva, I unpeel -- Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas. The child's cry
Melts in the wall. And I Am the arrow,
The dew that flies Suicidal, at one with the drive Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.
When her husband left her for another woman, she took his manuscripts, mixed them with a debris of fingernail parings and dandruff from his desk, and burned them in a witch's ritual bonfire. As the flames died down, a single fragment paper drifted on to her foot. On it was the name of the woman he had left her for: Assia. "Her psychic gifts, at almost any time," Ted wrote, "were strong enough to make her frequently wish to be rid of them." With Sylvia's personal nightmares to contend with, Hughes's creative strategies would have worked on her like, say, the "recovered memory" games untrained rogue psychotherapists play on unwary patients - releasing the inner demons then stepping aside with no thought of the consequences. Because he truly believed in her talent he did it in the name of poetry. He handed her the key she had been looking for to find her dead father and, always the good student, she went down into the cellarage, key in hand. But the ghouls she released were malign. They helped her write great poems, but they destroyed her marriage, then they destroyed her. ----guardian unlimited
this poem is so so poignant. it tugs at my heart strings. its like you can visualize her plight and anguish. and the supernatural forces lingering... ...a perfect poem for a perfectly grey day, a perfect poem to just waste your day away in lament and just wonder.
la femme fatale
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