A Sad Poetess
I've been obsessed lately with reading Sylvia Plath. I find myself going back to her poetry again and again. (Don't worry -- I'm not suicidal.) This is her poem "Morning Song," written after the birth of her daughter. I feel so sorry for both mother and child, but it is a magnificent poem. She doesn't seem to have the innate joy I felt when my own children were born.
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The widwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the ...