Sylvia Plath: On the Decline of Oracles
On the Decline of Oracles
My father kept a vaulted conch By two bronze bookends of ships in sail, And as I listened its cold teeth seethed With voices of that ambiguous sea Old Böcklin missed, who held a shell To hear the sea he could not hear. What the seashell spoke to his inner ear He knew, but no peasants know.
My father died, and when he died He willed his books and shell away. The books burned up, sea took the shell, But I, I keep the voices he Set in my ear, and in my eye The sight of those blue, unseen waves For which the ghost of Böcklin grieves. The peasants feast and multiply.
Eclipsing the spitted ox I see Neither brazen swan nor burning star, Heraldry of a starker age, But three men entering the yard, And those men coming up the stair. Profitless, their gossiping images Invade the cloistral eye like pages From a gross comic strip, and toward
The happening of this happening The earth turns now. In half an hour I shall go down the shabby stair and meet, Coming up, those three. Worth Less than present, past—this future. Worthless such vision to eyes gone dull That once descried Troy’s towers fall, Saw evil break out of the north.
For a Fatherless Son
You will be aware of an absence, presently, Growing beside you, like a tree, A death tree, color gone, an Australian gum tree— Balding, gelded by lightning—an illusion, And a sky like a pig’s backside, an utter lack of attention.
But right now you are dumb. And I love your stupidity, The blind mirror of it. I look in And find no face but my own, and you think that’s funny. It is good for me
To have you grab my nose, a ladder rung. One day you may touch what’s wrong The small skulls, the smashed blue hills, the godawful hush. Till then your smiles are found money.
The Arrival of the Bee Box
I ordered this, clean wood box Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift. I would say it was the coffin of a midget Or a square baby Were there not such a din in it.
The box is locked, it is dangerous. I have to live with it overnight And I can’t keep away from it. There are no windows, so I can’t see what is in there. There is only a little grid, no exit.
I put my eye to the grid. It is dark, dark, With the swarmy feeling of African hands Minute and shrunk for export, Black on black, angrily clambering.
How can I let them out? It is the noise that appalls me most of all, The unintelligible syllables. It is like a Roman mob, Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!
I lay my ear to furious Latin. I am not a Caesar. I have simply ordered a box of maniacs. They can be sent back. They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.
I wonder how hungry they are. I wonder if they would forget me If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree. There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades, And the petticoats of the cherry.
They might ignore me immediately In my moon suit and funeral veil. I am no source of honey So why should they turn on me? Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.
The box is only temporary.