To be or not to be, that is the question...

LOL...wow. So I was reading some poetry and came across Slyvia Plath's "Blackberrying" which just blew me away after my last blog about how difficult it is to be truly original. I say this now because I never knew this poem existed yet I, too, wrote one about blackberries...which is different but still blew me away. I've decided that I love her. Unfortunately so few truly did in her lifetime.

Blackberrying

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks ---
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
The only thing to come now is the sea.

From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

Slyvia Plath
 
And my poem, from my collection Immortality Lives....
 
Only For Berries

Berries on the bush,
Purple bundles sweet,
Clusters in the sun.
I feel so close to you now;
At home with you
In the dense overgrowth.

We speak kindly before
Our audience--fat little sparrows
Anxious to be alone.
What actors we are!
No one suspects we
Are here only for berries.

I will bake your blackberry cobbler,
Watch you pick the hard, little seeds
From your teeth one more time
As you smile up at me
So handsomely, like a small boy.

Coming here--
        For the berries--
Brings the past into the present.

Sharp memories;
Making love on the path.
You tracing my skin
With purple lips, lifting
My hips with scratched hands.

You’re watching me now,
Closer than the sparrows,
With hunger in your eyes
And darkened lips from the past.
“Come here.”

I hear your whisper;
It cuts like the thorns.
Coming here,
        For the berries,
Was a bad idea.

Yet, I allow your lips to
stain mine, knowing that this
was your way, so sweet and painful,
         Of saying goodbye.
We are here only for berries.

Dena L Moore
September 3, 2001
 
I have always had a feeling that I will be loved much more once I am gone than I am in life.