I want to share two poems by Sylvia Plath, because I like the optimism in an image they both share.
One of them, I’ve actually shared before, here, but I merely linked to it elsewhere. So, now, I will reproduce both.
Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools’ Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
This is a prenatal poem, it’s the last line that I love, the clean slate with nothing but your face drawn on as yet. Fresh. Sparkling new with potential.
Moving neatly on the the first line here:
Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose names you meditate —
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical
Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.
Your clear eye (like your clean slate) – waiting to be filled with all the joys of childhood, the ‘zoo of the new’.
I love this image. One of the best things about children (the actual best thing?) is watching them experience the world for the first time, drink it all in like a sponge, watch the change in their faces as they learn something new.
See the intro/roundup.