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I Am Not Dust

'This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary  
The trees of the mind are black.  
The light is blue.'  - Sylvia Plath

(1)  

Under the dew  
There is a place ---  
Cold, dark and wild,  
Embued with peace.  
The moon is aware of it  
In its pale knowing;  
It is blue-black, A-ghast.  

I came from the dirt to  
Return to wintering †
Here, where I no longer  
Drip red ---  

Blunt razor in hand like  
The space in between †
My thoughts ---  

I need no pardon here  
From whiteness,  
Deaths blank page is  
A sleeping bee.  

No flower fractures
The crust over me,  
But a poem crawls  
Bare and wild.  
It eats no dust,  
Nor becomes it.  

It never knew itself,  
Never woken from †
The dream ---  

Its epic knocks on  
The gate of the necropolis  
It smoke still rising,  
Ambient and heady.  
Here there is no divinity,  
But malignity.  
And it terrifies me ---  
This sunless atrocity.  

I am a taproot strangled †
In a barren ground ---  
A consequence yet unfound,  

But I am not dust, surely no,  
I am not dust!  

(2)  

What more could life had wanted,  
Hadn't I written enough?  
Was not the moonlight to  
Arouse an echo, careworn  
And sorrow bound?  

Did I not trample the †
Dark thing as a wild horse?  
Or gallop into its radiant meaning?  

Oh, irretrievable faults,  
Oh agitants;  
Grave-turning bystanders  
In merciless hushes ---  
Release me, release me.  

I tried many times to  
Get back to the brute †
That was you,  
Oh, lifes dark cold pew;  
The bells rang each time  
I tried bonging servience  
To You ---  

But nothing of commonsense †
Came through.  
So I married my vampire  
Along with you.  
And here at last I lay  
Under the death-tree:  
Yew.  

Its the same one I  
Always viewed before  
The antiseptic moon in  
Silent review.  
Its indignant shine always  
Came through,  
Who knew?  

(3)  

A poem lies at the  
Bare breast of knowing,  
Its stillborn phantom;  
My final award ---  
It waxes fatherless  
As I, As I,  
In deaths pallid grasp  
Far reaching as sky.  

When a poem no longer  
Breathes on its own,  
Love cannot come here ---  
It is an invalid.  
Trapped under shrouded  
Knowing, its fates winds  
Blowing.  

Yet, I am a poem,  
Oh engulfing one of  
Mud and water;  
Coffin of endearment ---  
The world.  

Read like some old  
Ancient language unearthed  
To enlighten the roses ---  
Their corsets splitting  
Their ghosts in two,  
Their milky vase,  
Empty.  

(4)  

In my loneliness  
I talk to the stars †
And they listen ---  
Words lifted up on  
A crane to the sky;  
Dark and humorless.  

The answer is lifted  
And removed from  
My breast like a newborn  
Gasping for breath;  
What event ---  
The prodigy walks on  
Air its footsoles bare.  

If I've lost one life  
I've lost two.  
The dark earth  
Killed us both, that  
Empty school-room ---  
I, a heroine in  
Winters periphery.  

Oh, effigy, sprung  
From the black lake of  
Expressionless silence,  
Its advice as flat as  
Lily-pads, where do  
Your dark souls  
Retreat to?  
Do you not astound as  
A sirens blare?  

Sounds from the belfry ---  
The stone temple with its  
Empty pews,  
Cold with despair,  
Murdering me in  
Silent review,  
Its eyes lifting in a  
Hope renewed  
Revisiting my mistakes,  
My wounds.  

(5)  

Oh, life, from you,  
I ripped the bandage off  
And walked away,  
Rather I flew ---  
A drunkard abandoning  
The pitcher-stream of  
Sustenant ecstasy;  
To live, I never  
Needed you.  

Now, I lie as  
Paradoxical a charade as  
I ever knew, under a  
Green-tide feeding off  
My demise and obstructing †
My view; but my words, †
They linger even as a  
Churchyard hears them,  
Its ears deaf with bird-song.  
A spring, I give in to,  
A spring, Oh, you.  

Sprung from knowledge,  
Bared of forgiveness,  
Early flowers emerge †
From bulbs of milky-white  
Solitude ---  
Its all rising anew,  
My followers numbers grew.  
They were timid flower-sniffers  
Who saw nothing as even to  
My death they flew.  

Recieved, it was, my  
Accolade; my plaque of  
Red triumph a basket of  
Fake flowers that  
Bled through.  
I followed the tinted †
Path to you, my arms bled  
Empty of life. ---  
How free, how free  
Was I.  

(6)  

I left her crying there,  
Pained, aching and wooden ---  
A book of poems.  
Under a tree that drips  
Noxious memory;  
Dew.  

I, too create death.  

I let her be common so  
That it may be known that  
In the presence of poetry  
One is never, never alone.  

So I lay here  
Clutching to my breasts,  
A poem, a poem;  
Meaning and  
Sad, Adieu.  

†† † † † † † † †-----  



Inspired by these writings:

†† 'Crossing The Water'  
†† 'Daddy'  
†† 'Edge'  
†† 'Electra On Azalea Path'  
†† 'Elm'  
†† 'Event'  
†† 'In Plaster'  
†† 'Leaving Early'  
†† 'Love Is A Parallax'  
†† 'Stillborn'  
†† 'The Bell Jar'  
†† 'The Moon And The Yew Tree'  
†† 'Three Women'  

†† † † † † † † † - By Sylvia Plath
PoetsRevenge
Written by PoetsRevenge
Published | Edited 13th May 2017
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