şükela:  tümü | bugün
  • bir sylvia plath şiiri:

    i came before the water ---
    colorists came to get the
    good of the cape light that scours
    sand grit to sided crystal
    and buffs and sleeks the blunt hulls
    of the three fishing smacks beached
    on the bank of the river's

    backtracking tail. i'd come for
    free fish-bait: the blue mussels
    clumped like bulbs at the grassroot
    margin of the tidal pools.
    dawn tide stood dead low. i smelt
    mud stench, shell guts, gulls' leavings;
    heard a queer crusty scrabble

    cease, and i neared the silenced
    edge of a cratered pool-bed.
    the mussels hung dull blue and
    conspicuous, yet it seemed
    a sly world's hinges had swung
    shut against me. all held still.
    though i counted scant seconds,

    enough ages lapsed to win
    confidence of safe-conduct
    in the wary other world
    eyeing me. grass put forth claws,
    small mud knobs, nudged from under,
    displaced their domes as tiny
    knights might doff their casques. the crabs

    inched from their pygmy burrows
    and from the trench-dug mud, all camouflaged in mottled mail
    of browns and greens. each wore one
    claw swollen to a shield large
    as itself--no fiddler's arm
    grown gargantuan by trade,

    but grown grimly, and grimly
    borne, for a use beyond my
    guessing of it. sibilant
    mass-motived hordes, they sidled
    out in a converging stream
    toward the pool-mouth, perhaps to
    meet the thin and sluggish thread

    of sea retracing its tide-
    way up the river-basin.
    or to avoid me. they moved
    obliquely with a dry-wet
    sound, with a glittery wisp
    and trickle. could they feel mud
    pleasurable under claws

    as i could between bare toes?
    that question ended it--i
    stood shut out, for once, for all,
    puzzling the passage of their
    absolutely alien
    order as i might puzzle
    at the clear tail of halley's

    comet coolly giving my
    orbit the go-by, made known
    by a family name it
    knew nothing of. so the crabs
    went about their business, which
    wasn't fiddling, and i filled
    a big handkerchief with blue

    mussels. from what the crabs saw,
    if they could see, i was one
    two-legged mussel-picker.
    high on the airy thatching
    of the dense grasses i found
    the husk of a fiddler-crab,
    intact, strangely strayed above

    his world of mud--green color
    and innards bleached out blown off
    somewhere by much sun and wind;
    there was no telling if he'd
    died recluse of suicide
    or headstrong columbus crab.
    the crab-face, etched and set there,

    grimaced as skulls grimace: it
    had an oriental look,
    a samurai death mask done
    on a tiger tooth, less for
    art's sake than god's. far from sea ---
    where red-freckled crab-backs, claws
    and whole crabs, dead, their soggy

    bellies pallid and upturned,
    perform their shambling waltzes
    on the waves' dissolving turn
    and return, losing themselves
    bit by bit to their friendly
    element--this relic saved
    face, to face the bald-faced sun.
  • ["'mussel-hunter at rock harbour*' (kaya limanındaki midye avcısı) bana göre fevkalade bir şiir ve bu şiiri the new yorker'a alacağımızı bildirmekten mutluluk duyarım..." yazısını gördüm - umut dolu beklemeler (ve bunu takip eden reddedilmeler) ile geçen on yılı düşününce, güle oynaya yukarıya, ted'in yanına çıktım ve meksika fasulyesi gibi hoplayıp zıplıyordum. ancak dakikalar geçtikten, biraz sakinleştikten sonra cümleyi okumayı bitirebildim "... aynı şey nocturne (gece müziği) için de geçerli, onun da fazlasıyla iyi olduğunu düşünüyoruz."] sylvia plath - the journals of sylvia plath