I'm reading a book called "The Writer's Voice" by A. Alvarez. It's quite entertaining. This is a book about how to write with a voice, and how the voice that is present is more important than the writing or the message or information that is being conveyed in the writing. Here's a poem that's in there, written by Sylvia Plath. Can you feel the voice?
*****
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumey, spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky---
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness---
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness---blackness and
silence.
*****
Everyone will write differently because we all have our own voice---the way we think and speak to ourself. Writing is a very personal thing, for both writer and reader. Of course a single piece of writing can be read by many, but each reader is an individual. Finding that unique personal voice, and it may not be one that we like or think is most appropriate for ourselves, is crucial. I hope I can find mine, and I hope you find yours too.
I did something kind of funny and dumb today...and that was I ordered two large tea pots at Cafe Driade. I think I drank way too much tea today heh. It's more funny than it reads.
*****
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumey, spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky---
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness---
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness---blackness and
silence.
*****
Everyone will write differently because we all have our own voice---the way we think and speak to ourself. Writing is a very personal thing, for both writer and reader. Of course a single piece of writing can be read by many, but each reader is an individual. Finding that unique personal voice, and it may not be one that we like or think is most appropriate for ourselves, is crucial. I hope I can find mine, and I hope you find yours too.
I did something kind of funny and dumb today...and that was I ordered two large tea pots at Cafe Driade. I think I drank way too much tea today heh. It's more funny than it reads.
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