it’s slimming, you know, blackish on black
but too many layers, just make me look fat
oh I could be goth if I wasn’t so blond but
I’ve got the pale down pat, so there’s that
still I like things bright and cheery, alive
it helps keep me sane and it helps me survive
without light I’m doomed, a misery glut
we creatures of habit need sunlight to thrive
yes, I’ve had my fill of doldrums and gloom
of lunacy’s folly, of shuttered dark rooms
of drudge on a schedule, of digging a rut
of omens and ominous warnings of doom
I choose to avoid the downers in life
drama, angst, those unnecessary strifes
I’m partial to black ‘cause it hides my fat gut
but don’t let that fool you, my blessings are rife
For NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 29, Prompt: write a poem based on the Plath Poetry Project’s calendar. https://plathpoetryproject.com/write/calendar/ Simply pick a poem from the calendar, and then write a poem that responds or engages with your chosen Plath poem in some way.
So, I read a few Plath poems. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but her poetry is a little “out there”. I know, this, coming from me. SMH. I finally settled on “Crossing the Water” (see it below). It’s the only one that my simple brain could make any sense of. It’s about things black and bleak and foreboding, deep. I get that. Oh yes…I get black in that sense of the word. I have medication for that. It helps me see glimmers of light, just enough to pluck every day miracles from the chaos. But since today’s prompt is asking us to go there…I’m game, but only for this challenge. I prefer chasing butterflies. And now that I’m finished crafting today’s poem I change my mind. I lied…just couldn’t let myself go there. Sorry Sylvia, you’re on your own.
Crossing the Water
by Sylvia Plath
Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
Their shadows must cover Canada.
A little light is filtering from the water flowers.
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
They are round and flat and full of dark advice.
Cold worlds shake from the oar.
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;
Stars open among the lilies.
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of astounded souls.