|Sylvia Plath's "The Couriers"
|Joined: ||Fri Feb 15th, 2008|
|Location: || |
|| Posted: Thu Dec 5th, 2013 03:40 pm||
|An alchemical and hermetic interpretation:
The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.
Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.
A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.
Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling
All to itself on the top of each
of nine black Alps.
A disturbance in mirrors,
the sea shattering its grey one-
Love, love, my season.
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