Blackberrying, Sylvia Plath

Описание: "Blackberrying" by Sylvia Plath is a vivid and introspective poem that explores themes of nature, life, and mortality. Written in 1960 and published posthumously in the collection Crossing the Water in 1971, the poem captures Plath's skillful use of imagery and figurative language.

In "Blackberrying," Plath describes a solitary walk through a blackberry lane, where the abundance of ripe berries and the presence of nature evoke a sense of both beauty and decay. The poem's journey leads to the sea, symbolizing an inevitable confrontation with the vastness and finality of life. The vivid descriptions of blackberries, birds, and the landscape create a rich tapestry that reflects Plath's inner thoughts and emotions.

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.