I think the rest of years is not equal to the sky September morning, I mean a blue sky so persistently, so empty of clouds. And I always remember the holidays in the village, fifteen days in September - and how was the wind when you walked, and you had to wear a jacket in the evenings - September heaven is to me like the Cupcake lost-time
Leo Sylvia Plath sitting on the balcony, draining heat of late summer, I read "Ariel" because even try to understand something that happened to my friend W, for some time, seems so long ago, who have spent years, but it is not true: not long ago, and is soon maybe for me to understand "Poetry is able to explain everything, or so it seems to me, when I read something like:
Elm
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, the big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?--
Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
Sylvia Plath. Ariel
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, the big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?--
Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
Sylvia Plath. Ariel
Fotografía: Elm Against Sky, Daryl Mitchell
This is the September sky that I referred
Olmo
know the background, he says. I know because of my long root
teacher:
is what you fear.
I do not fear: I've visited
sea Is what you hear in me,
its discontents?
Or the voice of anything that was your madness?
Love is a shadow. How
lie and cry in his post.
Listen, this is the sound of their hooves, it was like a horse.
galoparé So all night long, with impetus,
until you become the head stone, and the pillow
grass, and resonates and resonates.
Or I will bring the sound of poisons?
Now is the rain, the high hiss.
And behold its fruit: tin white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
my red filaments burn and maintained,
handful of wires.
Now I break into pieces and flying clubs.
A wind of so much violence
not tolerate lurkers: I have to scream.
is ruthless, often pull me
without compassion, it is barren.
I tear your glow. Or perhaps you have caught.
I let go. Let her go,
reduced smooth, and after total excision.
! Do I have and how I enrich your nightmares!
lives in me a shout.
At night flutters,
looking, with its claws, an object of love.
something I dread the dark
sleeping inside me
all day perceive their turns soft and feathery, her
malignancy.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are these the faces of love, those pale irrecoverable?
Is that why me restless heart?
I am unable to more knowledge.
What is it, that face
strangulation murders in its branches? ...
Its snaky acids kiss.
will petrified. such failures are isolated and slow
that kill and kill and kill.
The translation belongs to Ramón Buenaventura
