Science Musings Discussion
The last six words of this post are not mine, nor Virginia Woolf's. I leave their source as an exercise for the reader. More on Woolf and moments of grace in next Sunday's Musing.
I feel a little like the student who shoots his hand up and says "I know, I know."
But I have loved this poem since one of my favorite professors, Dr. Keating, assigned "Black Rook in Rainy Weather" way back in 1974?. And I even have it someplace on my homepage.
Black Rook in Rainy Weather
Sylvia Plath
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, not seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Leap incandescent
Out of the kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then ---
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); sceptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel.
For that rare, random descent.
How beautiful -- Wolf's words, Plath's words, and Chet's and Adam's written appreciation of them. AND Adam's recognition of the "Patch together a content" phrase. This whole ongoing web/blog is a rich experience for me-my thanks to all!
Not being Sylvia (although I'd like to have her poetic gift), I think I do less patching together. There is something exhilarating about swimming in this confusing oceanic melange -- identifying one thing, then another. More like Viginia, I guess. It's interesting that both women were suicides -- maybe the swim can be too dangerous for some.
But that's a simplification of the subject of clinical depression.
I look forward to Sunday's essay.
Speaking of great bran pies, I once heard a simple but moving metaphor that has stayed with me over the years. Imagine the largest pie you can, a vast, huge, deep dished pie. Now cut out the smallest slice you can, which completely fills your plate. This slice stands for what you know, everything you've felt and named and understood. Now cut out a slice a few times larger than the first. This slice stands for everything you know you don't know, such as what GeorgeW wears in bed, how to transplant a liver or the metabolic processes of a daisy. The remaining immense bulk of the great bran pie stands for all you don't know you don't know.
Perfect! Pass it along to the Intelligent Design crowd.
I loved Plath's poem. Truly beautiful. I've never read it and it spoke to me too.
But really, bran pie? Couldn't we at least have something tasty? Blackberry pie? Marionberry? Peach? Pumpkin or mince perhaps?
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