Hush 2009
sylvia plath the missing journal
&
the missing journal detail
&
the missing journal detail
Poppies in october
Even the sun-clouds this morning can
not manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her
coat so astoundingly ----
A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky
Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.
O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.
Sylvia Plath |
fishing day
washing day
Arcadian landscape , 1, 2,3
ΤΟ ΚΥΠΑΡΙΣΣΙ ΚΑΙ ΤΟ ΦΕΓΓΑΡΙ
Αυτό είναι το φως του νου, ψυχρό και πλανητικό.
Τα δέντρα του νου είναι μαύρα. Το φως κυανό.
Το χορτάρι αποθέτει τη θλίψη του στα πόδια μου σαν να
ήμουν ο Θεός,
Αγκυλώνοντας τους αστραγάλους μου και μουρμουρίζοντας για
την ταπεινότητά του.
Αιθαλώδης, αλκοολούχος ομίχλη κατοικεί σ’ αυτό τον τόπο
Που χωρίζεται από το σπίτι μου με μια σειρά επιτύμβιες στήλες.
Από εδώ ο δρόμος δε σε βγάζει πουθενά.
Η σελήνη δεν είναι πόρτα. Είναι ένα πρόσωπο αυτοτελές,
Λευκό σαν άρθρωση και φοβερά ταραγμένο.
Σέρνει πίσω της τη θάλασσα σαν σκοτεινό έγκλημα. Είναι σιωπηλή
Με τη χαίνουσα έκφραση της απόλυτης απελπισίας. Εδώ μένω.
Δυο φορές την Κυριακή, οι καμπάνες αιφνιδιάζουν τον ουρανό –
Οχτώ μεγαλοπρεπείς γλώσσες επιβεβαιώνουν την Ανάσταση.
Στο τέλος, νηφάλια σημαίνουν τ’ όνομά τους.
Το κυπαρίσσι τείνει προς τα πάνω. Έχει σχήμα γοτθικό.
Τα μάτια υψώνονται ακολουθώντας το και βρίσκουν τη σελήνη.
Η σελήνη είναι η μητέρα μου. Δεν είναι γλυκιά σαν την Παναγιά.
Τα γαλάζια της ενδύματα ελευθερώνουν μικρές νυχτερίδες και κουκουβάγιες.
Πώς θα ήθελα να πιστέψω στην τρυφερότητα –
Το πρόσωπο του ειδώλου, μαλακωμένο από το φως των κεριών,
Γέρνει ειδικά επάνω μου τα αγαθά του μάτια.
Έχω πέσει από πολύ ψηλά. Σύννεφα ανθίζουν
Γαλάζια και μυστηριώδη πάνω από το πρόσωπο των αστεριών.
Μες στην εκκλησία, οι άγιοι θα είναι όλοι γαλανοί,
Αιωρούμενοι με τα εύθραυστα πόδια τους πάνω από τα κρύα
στασίδια,
Τα πρόσωπα και τα χέρια τους άκαμπτα από την αγιοσύνη.
Η σελήνη δε βλέπει τίποτα απ’ αυτά. Είναι φαλακρή και άγρια.
Και το μήνυμα του κυπαρισσιού είναι η σκοτεινιά – η σκοτεινιά
και η σιωπή. Sylvia Plath
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
Fumy, 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 all be 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
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
Fumy, 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 all be 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. Sylvia Plath
Nina Papaconstantinou born in 1968 in Athens, Greece.
" My work explores the relationship between marks and text and texture, using enlarged photocopies of text or drawings, which I then trace on paper. I see tracing as a process of manual reproduction of enlarged copies, a time-based process which reverses the procedure from manual to digital (scanner) or mechanical (photocopier). It is an attempt to literally trace back to the origins of marks and the uncanny background or depth behind them.
The drawings on tracing paper are a combination of semi-transparent abstract landscapes of marks, grays, empty spaces between letters and blurred typeface borderlines thoroughly traced, or dense layers of handwritten text, through a process which resembles that of tapestry or weaving (which again is connected to storytelling). Text is not meant to be read but to be seen as an image, in order to reveal what language itself generates: a deceptive imagery.
Certain text drawings make more direct reference to the handwritten copy, by using carbon paper to copy entire books to paper, reducing them to one single surface. The superimposed layers of text reveal a certain shape of the book copied and create a new surface that turns language as a system of codes back into undecipherable information. The idea of the handwritten copy or the reproduction of texts can be traced back to the monastic scribes, but here their painstaking labor is ironically reversed since –as if by mistake- the drawings only reflect an image of the text and not the text itself.
My most recent work deals with issues of texture in relation to motifs of tapestries and cushions, which make use of arcadian or bucolic scenes. I combine different effects of texture -that created by puncturing (a more relief effect), and that of tiny marks of colour pencils on paper."
Sylvia Plath collected poems --ποιήματα ΚΕΔΡΟΣ μτφ ΚΑΤΕΡΙΝΑ ΗΛΙΟΠΟΥΛΟΥ ΕΛΕΝΗ ΗΛΙΟΠΟΥΛΟΥ