In this poem, Sylvia talks about the cemetery in Heptonstall. She was buried there in 1963.
November Graveyard
The scene stands stubborn: skinflint trees
Hoard last year's leaves, won't mourn, we...
In this poem, Sylvia talks about the cemetery in Heptonstall. She was buried there in 1963.
November Graveyard
The scene stands stubborn: skinflint trees Hoard last year's leaves, won't mourn, wear sackcloth, or turn To elegiac dryads, and dour grass Guards the hard-hearted emerald of its grassiness However the grandiloquent mind may scorn Such poverty. No dead men's cries
Flower forget-me-nots between the stones Paving this grave ground. Here's honest rot To unpick the heart, pare bone Free of the fictive vein. When one stark skeleton Bulks real, all saint's tongues fall quiet: Flies watch no reserrections in the sun.
At the essential landscape stare, stare Till your eyes foist a vision dazzling on the wind: Whatever lost ghosts flare Damned, howling in their shrouds across the moor Rave on the leash of the starving mind Which peoples the bare room, the blank, untenanted air.
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Sylvia Plath was great but not as great as her grotesquely enhanced "depressed teenage girl" image makes her out to be. And she was no victim of Ted Hughes: she was a victim of depression.
Hopkins 4545, if you were a poet, or, if you were an astute poet, you would marvel at her amazing, visionary metaphors and her exacting, flawless use of poetic forms. She was a natural genius.
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