Saturday, July 28, 2012


"Colour floods to the spot, dull purple./The rest of the body is all washed out,/The colour of pearl.//In a pit of rock/The sea sucks obsessively,/One hollow the whole sea's pivot.//The size of a fly,/The doom mark/Crawls down the wall.//The heart shuts,/The sea slides back,/The mirrors are sheeted." (Sylvia Plath) Does an emotional abrasion more closely resemble a gash or a bruise? Even if we can describe our wounds, do curative powers truly lie in the act of identification? I simply don't know. The "professionals" have yet to heal me. I am green and blue, still seeking comfort in poems and books. "Colour floods to the spot, dull purple. The rest of the body is all washed out." Notice how the discoloured area stands in stark contrast to the pallour of death. The doom mark pointing to the final execution of the poet's inner light.

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