Imagination doesn't just mean making things up. It means thinking things through, solving [problems] or hoping to do so, and being just distant enough to be able to laugh at things that are normally painful. [Some people] would call this escapism, but they would be be entirely wrong. I would call fantasy the most serious, and the most useful branch of writing there is.
--Diana Wynne Jones

Thursday, April 22, 2010

More Na-Po-Mo

A quote for National Poetry Month:

"When in doubt there is always form for us to go on with...The background is hugeness and confusions shooting away from where we stand into black and utter chaos...To me, any form I assert upon it be considered for how much more it is than nothing....The poem is a momentary stay against confusion."
                                                        --Robert Frost

And a poem, by Sylvia Plath:

The Night Dances

A smile fell in the grass.

And how will your night dances
Lose themselves. In mathematics?

Such pure leaps and spirals ----
Surely they travel

The world forever, I shall not entirely
Sit emptied of beauties, the gift

Of your small breath, the drenched grass
Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.

Their flesh bears no relation.
Cold folds of ego, the calla,

And the tiger, embellishing itself ----
Spots, and a spread of hot petals.

The comets
Have such a space to cross,

Such coldness, forgetfulness.
So your gestures flake off ----

Warm and human, then their pink light
Bleeding and peeling

Through the black amnesias of heaven.
Why am I given

These lamps, these planets
Falling like blessings, like flakes

Six sided, white
On my eyes, my lips, my hair

Touching and melting.


  1. "Of your small breath, the drenched grass
    Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies"

    Oh, rapture, this poem! The cadence, the words, the's just...beautiful!

  2. When Sylvia's not being utterly depressing, she's amazing. Actually, she's amazing when she's utterly depressing, too.


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