Meta Sylvia

[just mercedes]

Stroke by stroke she rows into darkness
towards an island unmarked on maps.

Words distract her with incense and light
or clay and blood. Space fills with language
no one speaks, vacuum, furnace, not only these;
white noise like sheets over mirrors.

In the mirror an inverse stanza, outlined
in obscurity; a scribble, a drizzle of soot –
not frozen in space but flame-nailed
onto the white sheet page.

She schemes to carry this precious chaos
to the island in a suitable chalice. Stanza
carves the carriage, the cup, chaos,
the mirror, and the island.

Big game roams here. She tracks the greatest,
captures him, writes his wrongs - steals him,
all his desires. Exhilaration drips from her pen
like spring water.

She’s captured him alive, tethered him
between parallel lines; now she milks him
in the desert, bleeds him carefully,
cautiously, until he’s
condensed.

Then she launches her flesh canoe
towards the island
all over again.

[kolemath]

plath about plath?

Stroke by stroke she rows into darkness
towards an island unmarked on maps. no (wo)man is an island much? allusion to donne? i like the image

Words distract her with incense and light
or clay and blood. Space fills with language  great meta images. i like how space points back to darkness of S1
no one speaks, vacuum, furnace, not only these; i don't like semicolons used incorrectly, but who cares what i think about mechanics in poetry? the rules are yours to break
white noise like sheets over mirrors. i like the image of sheet over mirror, especially considering L1 in the following stanza; furnace is confusing though; it doesn't connect like the white which contrasts with space and darkenss

In the mirror an inverse stanza, outlined love the line, but aren't mirrors reversed in the direction perpendicular to the mirror surface instead of upside down or opposite, which inverse implies; either way, verse is the word to use, in one way or another
in obscurity; a scribble, a drizzle of soot – obscurity is abstract; good sounds for shizzle
not frozen in space but flame-nailed now furnace works better
onto the white sheet page. interesting way to say she's writing

She schemes to carry this precious chaos
to the island in a suitable chalice. Stanza good enjambment
carves the carriage, the cup, chaos, i don't like carves for some reason; well maybe i do; the agency of stanza doing the carving seems off to me somehow;
the mirror, and the island.

Big game roams here. She tracks the greatest,
captures him, writes his wrongs - steals him, good
all his desires. Exhilaration drips from her pen desire and exhilaration are abstract
like spring water. good

She’s captured him alive, tethered him
between parallel lines; now she milks him
in the desert, bleeds him carefully,
cautiously, until he’s
condensed. good revision metaphor

Then she launches her flesh canoe
towards the island
all over again. yes

the poem gains strength as it goes, which may connect to the writing process itself too. I hope the comments help. thanks for sharing

[just mercedes]

Thank you Kolemath - you've given me another opening - I will revise soon. Yes, Plath about Plath - I think she was never more herself than when writing.

I played with the conceit of stanza as an island, and a mirror (because it always reflects the writer) and the container or chalice that carries her words, her 'chaos' to the island, where she can now 'attack' it, or make it conform to her terms.

I'm not happy with 'carve' myself but needed a one syllable word starting with 'c' - put it in as a place-saver, still cogitating ...

Abstractions - trying hard to bring those into line with concrete images that don't oppose those already used. I'll get there.

Thank you for your close read and comments.

[zorcas]

Stroke by stroke she rows into darkness
towards an island unmarked on maps.

Words distract her with incense and light words from where?
or clay and blood. Space fills with language
no one speaks, vacuum, furnace, not only these; who are the no ones? Thought you were alone. Where did furnace come from and why?
white noise like sheets over mirrors.

In the mirror an inverse stanza, outlined where did the mirror come from---confusing.
in obscurity; a scribble, a drizzle of soot – soot from the furnace?
not frozen in space but flame-nailed
onto the white sheet page.

She schemes to carry this precious chaos why is chaos precious?
to the island in a suitable chalice. Stanza
carves the carriage, the cup, chaos, what carriage or is it a canoe?
the mirror, and the island.

Big game roams here. She tracks the greatest,
captures him, writes his wrongs - steals him, did you mean "rights"?  captures then steals him like spring water not likely to be found in a desert? This needs work.
like spring water.

She’s captured him alive, tethered him
between parallel lines; now she milks him Can you milk a him? what parallel lines?
in the desert, bleeds him carefully, Bleeding doesn't condense.
condensed.

Then she launches her flesh canoe flesh means what? First stanza says you row, but a canoe is paddled.
towards the island you never said you had left the island. Ig she trapped the greatest the first time what we she go back for?
all over again.

         The entire poem reads like a jumble of words thrown together.

[just mercedes]

Stroke by stroke she rows into darkness
towards an island unmarked on maps.

Words distract her with incense and light words from where? Her mind, her thoughts.
or clay and blood. Space fills with language
no one speaks, vacuum, furnace, not only these; who are the no ones? Thoughts unspoken Thought you were alone. Sylvia is alone, with her thoughts, writing. Where did furnace come from and why? A metaphor for the process of creation
white noise like sheets over mirrors.

In the mirror an inverse stanza, outlined where did the mirror come from---confusing. Her thoughts
in obscurity; a scribble, a drizzle of soot – soot from the furnace? Traces left by the fire of creation
not frozen in space but flame-nailed
onto the white sheet page.

She schemes to carry this precious chaos why is chaos precious? Because it is the beginning of everything
to the island in a suitable chalice. Stanza
carves the carriage, the cup, chaos, what carriage or is it a canoe? The 'job' of a stanza is to contain thought and move it towards its destination
the mirror, and the island.

Big game roams here. She tracks the greatest,
captures him, writes his wrongs - steals him, did you mean "rights"? Congratulations! You worked that out all by yourself! captures then steals him like spring water not likely to be found in a desert? Yes, if you  like This needs work. Writing IS work - that's what the poem is all about
like spring water.

She’s captured him alive, tethered him
between parallel lines; now she milks him Can you milk a him? You've never masturbated?  what parallel lines? The lines on a page
in the desert, bleeds him carefully, Bleeding doesn't condense. Yes it does. Never heard of 'dried blood'?
condensed.

Then she launches her flesh canoe flesh means what? First stanza says you row, but a canoe is paddled. Her flesh canoe is her own body. Writing is achieved by the body. Paddling is a form of rowing. 
towards the island you never said you had left the island. The island, the stanza, is no sooner achieved than she sets out for the next one. Of course, I'm allowing for more than one stanza in this poem. Ig she trapped the greatest the first time what we she go back for? Every stanza needs to contain the idea, thought, she creates. 
all over again.

         The entire poem reads like a jumble of words thrown together. Actually, all poetry can be seen as 'a jumble of words thrown together' because that is exactly what it is. The skill is in deciding what goes where, which is the 'meta' or self-referential process of writing, which is what this poem is all about. 


  

[RiverNotch]

Stroke by stroke she rows into darkness Occasionally, "she" feels more like a blockade -- the theme I'm getting here is Plath being meta on Plath, Plath speaking through you, instead of you being meta on Plath, you adopting her voice and imagery. And imagery almost certainly is adopted, as something here rings familiar, when opposed to Ariel -- but voice? The piece overall feels too clear, too continuous -- none of that icy, jittery energy I normally get. Although perhaps that's the point?
towards an island unmarked on maps. Preferring the sound of "toward" -- emphasizes s.

Words distract her with incense and light
or clay and blood. Space fills with language "or" feels like the writer is unsure, instead of the speaker -- and though "space fills with language" sounds almost-proverbial, I'm still missing an "a", as certainly the speaker transforms this language into something that is spoken?
no one speaks, vacuum, furnace, not only these; Feels like the semicolon shouldn't be there --- more "no one speaks --- vacuum, furnace", "not only these" doesn't feel like the right thought,
white noise like sheets over mirrors. especially since this runs so alien. A vacuum is pure emptiness, a furnace pure fire --- this middle ground doesn't feel like a middle ground at all, especially with "like sheets over mirrors" distracting the purity of the central thought. Perhaps

"no one speaks: vacuum, furnace,
no, not these --- white noise."

Although perhaps I just didn't get it.

In the mirror an inverse stanza, outlined
in obscurity; a scribble, a drizzle of soot – Since you detail, colon instead of semicolon?
not frozen in space but flame-nailed
onto the white sheet page. I do like this stanza. This is where the poem lifts for me, where it starts to really reach Plath ---- although that first stanza does an especially good job of setting this up, if not in voice then in image. Again, it felt familiar, opposed to Ariel --- immediately, the image appeared in my mind, a lone boat crossing a moonlit lake....

She schemes to carry this precious chaos
to the island in a suitable chalice. Stanza Although the adjectives here bog. "Precious chaos"? Adolescent. "Suitable chalice"? Functional. "Stanza"? Well, that's not carried by an adjective ---- and the piece lifts again.
carves the carriage, the cup, chaos, "the chaos", why not? Although really, I don't support the idea of the "chaos", not because it's a bad thought, it feels so delicately tarotic, but because it's such a gothic, really adolescent, word, in this piece's context.
the mirror, and the island. And certainly, the images selected here could be more novel -- it's almost repetitive.

Big game roams here. She tracks the greatest, Once again, the poem reaches heights, although not those same heights as before -- now, instead of Plath, it is the writer who speaks. And I do love the writer.
captures him, writes his wrongs - steals him, I keep thinking Ted Hughes. I'm sure that's only another dimension -- Plath was not so tied to him, just as he should not be so tied to her.
all his desires. Exhilaration drips from her pen
like spring water. I feel like this line could be fused with the next -- the sudden drop in cadence is a distraction, for me.

She’s captured him alive, tethered him Well, it's not really capturing if the captive's dead?
between parallel lines; now she milks him Although tethering him between parallel lines -- a delicious blend of literature, Euclid, and Blondie's best, such that it feels universal, a blending between writer and [original] speaker. With "milks", it seems the speaker returns to pure Plath, and something starts to smell again...
in the desert, bleeds him carefully, ...I mean, "bleeds" feels right, sure, but it also feels tired, in the context of the poem --- like Plath's seeming overuse of Carbon Monoxide, wit not intended...
cautiously, until he’s ...and again, the break in the cadence feels awkward, irregular. I'd rather move condensed up to this line.
condensed.

Ultimately, something like

"Big game roams here. She tracks the greatest,
captures him, writes his wrongs --- steals him,
all his desires. Exhilaration

drips from her pen, tethers him
between parallel lines; now she milks him
in the desert, bleeds him carefully,..."

Then she launches her flesh canoe
towards the island Now the lone "s" here feels right.
all over again. And we're truly back, the voice once again reaching the true objectiveness of the first stanza (as the first stanza only set stages, not showed voices) --- although this stanza feels purer, more Plath-like. Perhaps that is the point: not a continuous imitation, but a fusion of the two voices, ultimately to explore the roles of both, Plath as an artist in motion (long-stopped), the speaker as the artist in motion (still-going). 

A fine piece.

[just mercedes]

Thank you for your clear and close read, Rivernotch. I'm still thinking about revision here, and will come back into it soon.

[Achebe]

For me, the entire poem was beautiful except for the "or" in L4 which reads like filler.
I interpreted it as the writing process. You reach deep within memory to tease out once-strong experiences now fallen into obscurity, what we call 'inspiration'. During this process of remembering, snippets of poems heard before, or dialogues from films, or the random detritus of recent memory try to distract: at first, the distraction is strong, then it becomes
"white noise like sheets over mirrors" (what a phenomenal line). Along the way, the form to hold your poem in - the meta-song, the general cadence, flow, and structure of your poem - comes into your mind, and you take this to hold the milk, or semen, of your most powerful memory. Then the poem's done and you start all over again.
I'm not clear about the Sylvia Plath connection.

[Lizzie]

Hi JM! This is my favorite piece from you. I am, of course, an embarrassingly ardent admirer of Plath. I'm loving all the elements from her works that I can see in here like rowing to the island, mirrors, clay....it's all a little candy trail for Plath lovers to meander through finding little gems. It's like a little adventure!

I love that it has a surrealistic flavor, enough coherence to follow a drama and get pulled into vivid scenes (I love being able to supply additional details myself). Things make sense, and they don't like in a dream. Yes, it's very dreamlike. A dream of Sylvia! I just can't stop reading it, and I want to give you the biggest bear hug because I love it! Ok, I'll stop gushing now