Saturday, February 7, 2009


The snow buried your balled cries.
Acetone corroded your belljar.
But preserved the emptiness.
Stifling full.
Rolled back your eyes never blink.
Never miss a thing.
It means nothing.

Stop crying now.
Here is a hand.
Virgin honey.
Fructose. Sweetness! Sweetness!
Till it becomes bland.
It means nothing.

It is summer now.
April is so cruel indeed.
Your forgetful snow melts.
The glazed ocean of memory.
It hurts the eyes.
I listen to the drops of your deception.
And wait for the tide of your knife.
It means nothing.

Insomnia is anesthetized.
I am. I am. I am.

Sylvia Plath ended her life in the February of ’63. It is fitting that I just finished reading her autobiographical novel “Belljar” now. I also came across a poem that I had not previously read at the end of the book. Here it is:

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”


onna said...

Somehow the first poem is stragely familiar to me.Was the mentioning of April coincidental?

For the next poem I have an answer:

My eyes.
I can't even open mine.
My tears sting now and,
in this loveless world,
they find their way through
their own crimson streaks.

My eyes.
I won't even open mine.
Scarred. Scared
of what I will see.

My eyes.
I don't even want to open mine.
Don't want to see your self pity.
You should've loved a thunderbird,
and your whims galore.

Aarushi said...

I can understand why the first poem is coincidental. It was written immediately after I finished reading belljar.

The mentioning of April was intended.

As for your answer, sometimes, seeing too much and too clearly is a curse.

onna said...

Yes, thats true and very much enlightening.
But it seems you are somewhat pre-inclined in your judgement of my poem.Are you?

Aarushi said...

I should hope that I am not pre-inclined in my judgement of your poem, but, then again your poem is an answer to another. And ofcourse, pre-inclination is an euphemism for bias. I am not biased.

Do I know you?

onna said...

First, sorry it took this long to reply. Had not been keeping well. Am ok now.

Do you know me? Yes and no. No more elaborations.

"sometimes, seeing too much and too clearly is a curse."

What makes you say that?

Aarushi said...

First, glad that you are ok now.

I don't know if you have noticed, but there is a common thread between the three poems. All of them talk about the "arbitrary blackness" that comes with seeing too much. A million things make me say what I said.

onna said...

the curse, for some, is an unrecognized boon

Sushant said...