Friday, February 25, 2011

ars poetica

He hymns the rotten queen with saffron hair,
Who has saltier aphrodisiacs,
Than virgins’ tears. That bawdy queen of death,
Her wormy couriers aer at his bones.
Still he hymns juice of her, hot nectarine.
I see him, horny-skinned and tough, construe,
What flinty pebbles and ploughable upturns,
As ponderable tokens of her love.
He, godly, doddering, spells,
No succinct Gabriel from the letters here,
But floridly, his amorous nostalgias.
Ouija - Sylvia Plath.