An "Introduction" of sorts... which relies primarily on Plath (well... mostly) to say what I intend to express here (she is, it seems, always my most reliable source):

Sylvia Plath once wrote an brief introduction to eight of her poems that were to be included in a BBC broadcast. Of Sheep In Fog she offered only "In this next poem, the speaker's horse is proceeding at a slow, cold walk down a hill of macadam to the stable at the bottom. It is December. It is foggy. In the fog there are sheep." The "speaker" is Sylvia. The piece, a late work written very shortly before her suicide, is telling. Her introduction is... misleading.

I have spent the last long while pondering poets and painters and the like. There was Sylvia, as there is always... and Rilke and Pessoa... Cezanne and Van Gogh... and more. And there was, of course, their art. Art... which through the years, has given me so very, very much. These gifts, it occured to me, can be received - but never taken. Artists are a curious bunch, I think. They have so incredibly much to offer... but they do so in a way... well... that perhaps only an artist can understand. Sylvia, so often labeled a "confessional poet" put, I think [and this whole thing is really is just me thinking 'out loud', so to speak], the entirity of herself in her work. However, when asked, (like so so many artists) she stopped short of saying as much. Sheep In Fog exists then as a poem about a horse and sheep and fog and whatnot... or.... something so very more - based entirely on what the individual reader discovers it to be. What it really was, only Sylvia could know and ironically, she was probably the last one a reader (or any interested party) should have been asking - perhaps because she didn't want to tell us, perhaps because she couldn't tell us or perhaps... because she herself didn't know. It almost doesn't matter which it was. What matters... at least to me... is that it is fully there - on the page, trapped as it existed in the moment it was written. Each reader will take from it whatever they individually are given (as they read and/or as time rolls forward). Some may misinterpret, some may not care, some may find in it only what they come expecting to find, some may forget or be unwilling/not yet ready to accept what was offered... and some will discover the truth of it. That... to me... is art.

With a whispered 'thank you' to Sylvia,
~Snemmy
(who did, for the record, try to stop herself from rambling
-but so absolutely couldn't do so entirely given the subject matter)

The Art of Discovery Contributed by Silent-No-More on Sunday, 4th December 2005 @ 12:15:04 AM in AEST Topic: poets An "Introduction" of sorts... which relies primarily on Plath (well... mostly) to say what I intend to express here (she is, it seems, always my most reliable source): Sylvia Plath once wrote an brief introduction to eight of her poems that were to be included in a BBC broadcast. Of Sheep In Fog she offered only "In this next poem, the speaker's horse is proceeding at a slow, cold walk down a hill of macadam to the stable at the bottom. It is December. It is foggy. In the fog there are sheep." The "speaker" is Sylvia. The piece, a late work written very shortly before her suicide, is telling. Her introduction is... misleading. I have spent the last long while pondering poets and painters and the like. There was Sylvia, as there is always... and Rilke and Pessoa... Cezanne and Van Gogh... and more. And there was, of course, their art. Art... which through the years, has given me so very, very much. These gifts, it occured to me, can be received - but never taken. Artists are a curious bunch, I think. They have so incredibly much to offer... but they do so in a way... well... that perhaps only an artist can understand. Sylvia, so often labeled a "confessional poet" put, I think [and this whole thing is really is just me thinking 'out loud', so to speak], the entirity of herself in her work. However, when asked, (like so so many artists) she stopped short of saying as much. Sheep In Fog exists then as a poem about a horse and sheep and fog and whatnot... or.... something so very more - based entirely on what the individual reader discovers it to be. What it really was, only Sylvia could know and ironically, she was probably the last one a reader (or any interested party) should have been asking - perhaps because she didn't want to tell us, perhaps because she couldn't tell us or perhaps... because she herself didn't know. It almost doesn't matter which it was. What matters... at least to me... is that it is fully there - on the page, trapped as it existed in the moment it was written. Each reader will take from it whatever they individually are given (as they read and/or as time rolls forward). Some may misinterpret, some may not care, some may find in it only what they come expecting to find, some may forget or be unwilling/not yet ready to accept what was offered... and some will discover the truth of it. That... to me... is art. With a whispered 'thank you' to Sylvia, ~Snemmy (who did, for the record, try to stop herself from rambling -but so absolutely couldn't do so entirely given the subject matter) ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ The Art of Discovery Draw from it what you will But do not break it all apart You must move back a step or two To find the beauty of the art You’re cleaving To deceiving Interpretations now You will not find the answer If the truth you won’t allow A painting’s more than colored canvas A poem, more than written words If you’ve dared to ask what it might mean Forget now what you heard. Such inspection This dissection Is of little gain You’ll never find the reason For you’ve overlooked the same So draw from it what you will Let the mystery unveil itself in time You will not see it in the brushstrokes Nor find it set out in the rhyme Copyright © Silent-No-More ... [ 2005-12-04 00:15:04] (Date/Time posted on site) Advertisments: Previous Posted Poem         | |         Next Posted Poem