Monday, November 15, 2010

"On not being able to write"

The bittersweet ode of Keats'
autumn, the Kafkan labyrinth,
the fated, fractured, Ariel.
An awful
beauty in such agonising
the destined winter lurking always
outside the margins,
in the spaces between the

The spaces and
my words.

This is the moment:
creativity is
Sylvia turns on the gas,
the scream of the muse
to make any noise at all.

I no longer believe that
will keep my Caliban hidden.
You taught me language,
and my profit was not that I learned to curse,
but that I learned the protest of silence.

I have watched the
insinuate darkness.
I have built
the labyrinth of labyrinths,
containing horror in
the fragile glass of
a few phrases.
I have kept a world of
anguish in a
captivity of my own ill-constructed design,
and it is not enough.

A terrible beauty is born and borne
and there are no
words left.

What is the language of suffering?
I think I spoke it a long time ago,
when it seemed to carry the weight
of less horrible things.

When I carried the weight of less horrible things?
I forget.

I forget what it was like
before the silence stifled,
before it crept into my mind,
a duplicitous lover,
intimating peace.


  1. "duplicitous lover" -- lovely.

    and more than one Plath reference? divine.

  2. more than one Plath ref. will alienate me from some, and endear me to others :)

    and thanks for commenting....

    this is the last poem i wrote, in 2001.