Elena,a baby wrapped in woollen clothes.
On the last train,Warsaw to Moscow,
[ change Niegoreloje.]
1939.Father,mother,brother
You passed through the Arctic Wastes of life.
Still as if travelling on a train
To an impossibly far destination.
As you left, the German Army crashed into Poland
Lost,your aunts
Your cousins.
Your culture.
How does God select the damned?
You had your own baby,here in England,
Not lost like all those others.
Your father died by his own hand,
The hand of history;
The fingers twitching,
Not sure where to point.
Then settling into frozen grief
A sculpture only your mother saw.
You saw too,Elena.
You always saw,though you can’t remember.
The long journey,your mother’s breast,
Your father’s silence.
Only the dead know that silence.
Only the dead weep
With the rocks and stones .
And the ice in each eye
Fell like snow down your cheeks
As you held your own infant.
Warsaw to Moscow,
Moscow to Jerusalem.
Always journeying
Looking for what they can never find:
The home they left behind
The presence of the dead
Lying in gaunt heaps
Like rubbish.
Your aunts, Elena.
Your cousins.
You never knew them.
But there’s a hole in your mind
Through which the Polish wind blows forever

http://www.bu.edu/writingprogram/journal/issue-9/doomchin/

“Defining Plath

While Plath is traditionally categorized as a confessional poet, critics like Howe and Davison fail to recognize the ekphrastic quality of many of Plath’s poems. As defined by the Oxford English Dictionary, ekphrasis is “a literary device in which a painting, sculpture, or other work of visual art is described in detail.” Each poem in which Plath comments on or discusses a work of visual art can be defined as an ekphrastic poem. Ekphrastic works are interactive and draw clear links between writers and artists. By writing an ekphrastic poem, one enters a pre-existing conversation; one work could not exist without the other. In essence, many of Plath’s works are dependent on works of others, showing her deep veneration for the painters whose works she incorporates in her own.

THE DREAM, HENRI ROUSSEAU, 1910.

“Yadwigha, On a Red Couch, Among Lilies,” Plath’s 1958 poem, was written in response to Henri Rousseau’s The Dream, painted forty-eight years prior in 1910. The painting, Rousseau’s last and largest work, places a young nude female reclining on a red sofa in the middle of a lush jungle, full of vibrant foliage and lively animals. According to the Bulletin of the Art Institute of Chicago, “Though the public was thoroughly perplexed, the artists rightly hailed The Dream as one of the milestones of modern art” (“The Henri Rousseau Exhibition,” 20). Plath, in her poem, points to the perplexed reaction of the public, choosing to address Rousseau about his painting by discussing their questions.

Plath responds to the structure of Rousseau’s painting in a compelling way. The painting appears to have a random composition; elephants, lions, birds, monkeys, and other animals seem to be randomly strewn about the canvas, interlaced with overwhelming amounts of greenery and lilies; mysterious snake charmer is shown emerging out from some trees, and the nude figure, Yadwigha, is arbitrarily thrown onto the canvas lounging on a sofa. There is no clear order to how Rousseau arranges things. Additionally, the subject depicted, a nude on a couch in the jungle, is incredibly random and perplexing. However, Plath contrasts this randomness by approaching her poem in a methodical way. She chose to write her poem in sestina form; a sestina is “a poem of six six-line stanzas (with an envoy) in which the line-endings of the first stanza are repeated, but in different order, in the other five” (Oxford English Dictionary). The form is structured, complicated and deliberate. Plath clearly put a lot of thought into how the poem was arranged.

For the sestina’s six line-endings she repeats, Plath picks the painting’s most pertinent images and concepts: “you,” “couch,” “eye,” “moon,” “green,” and “lilies.” “Lilies,” “green,” “couch,” and “moon” are all visuals that stand out in Rousseau’s work. The repetition of the painting’s pertinent images allows the reader to envision the painting through her words and points to her astute attention to detail and respect for the painting. Her use of “you” underlines that this is a poem in which she is talking both to Rousseau and Yadwigha (depending on the stanza) because she wants to interact with both the artist and the subject. “Eye” represents the “eyes” of different aspects of the painting [“under the eye/Of uncaged tigers and a tropical moon,” (4–5), “Dreamed yourself away in the moon’s eye” (28)]; Rousseau’s vision [“But to a friend, in private, Rousseau confessed his eye” (35), “To feed his eye with red” (38)]; and the eyes of critics and museum patrons [“It seems the constant critics wanted you… To turn you luminous, without the eye” (8, 12), “The couch glared out at the prosaic eye” (20)]. This emphasis allows Plath to differentiate between artistic vision and critical response, recognizing that there is merit to both points of view. She notes that art is meant to be created and commented on. Plath features the imperative relationship between artist and critic, taking on the role as critic by writing her poem. In turn, her poem is a piece of art—she is aware that it will be criticized, just as Rousseau’s painting was. This recognition through mentioning critics directly in the work signals a parallel Plath draws between Rousseau and herself, making her connected to the art of the past. She is clearly mindful of “the presence of anyone but herself,” unlike what Howe asserts.”

There’s something in the silence of the statues
Like Bach played very quietly and true
That sends a human soul into a rapture
And stops us wondering what  we ought to do.

There’s something in their gaze so enigmatic
With peaceful hearts, they share their marble eyes
That now and then  dear  life becomes ecstatic
Until the special time will fade and die.

They’re proud and humble at the same quiet moment
Nothing  can be gained by attitude
Nothing can gained by smiling assent
Nothing  over which we humans brood.

And so goodbye to all the rumination,
All the to and fro of argument
For this is now a  silent  dislocation
From what we said and what we really meant

Moonlight leaves a sheen like rain
upon my skin; the owl asks
what place I’m in? I am the place:
it’s here, within, oh owl-faced moon.

Jack Brae Curtingstall

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_W._Sexton

I bought more cyclamen and recalled you
Wandering through wildflowers  by my side
I don’t know where to put them , they might die
Then I would feel so sad and lonely blue
All we read of pain and love is true.
Yet we let our hearts stay open wide
I bought some cyclamen and recalled you
Wandering through wildflowers  by my side
I have loved not widely but a few
I have touched on bliss  and when it flies
I have touched the grief that truly  lies
I bought  cyclamen and recalled you

Sing a song to help the dying soldier
Sing a song to ease him on the way
Release him from your weary shoulder
And let him sleep in  shadows of dismay

It doesn’t matter that your heart is broken
It doesn’t matter he has got no bed
At last the love you feel has opened
And before he dies, you are by silence wed

Sing a song to help him with his leaving~
Sing as softly as a little bird
There is no evil that he is concealing
And you yourself have heard his final words.

And when his soul flies from the open window
You cannot stop it with your wifely heart
Stay a while here with his holy shadow
And then rise to your feet and so depart

We’re only human we feel sorrow
We’re only human, how we grieve
With trembling legs and  belly hollow
Appearances like this do not deceive