when she was a child and she was quite sure that no one was looking she picked up a stick to scratch in concrete ‘I was here’
each day as she walked to school she would see her work and laugh to herself no one would know it was her
in her teenager years she had that teenage crush and melting against his name cleared the dust on his car with words that only she could write ‘I love you’
She thought he really knew but she would never tell, in later years when thinking about him she would laugh inside with a little embarrassment
she had a long and ordinary life a husband, children and memories to drown and if she could paint the sky these would be her words ‘life is beautiful’
before she died and with a knowing smile she left these words especially for you …
The following poem was included in a Yass Valley Writers anthology … Voices From the Valley.
I wanted to honour those that are not writers and have no prominent life in connection with using words, hence the title. Choice words are usually expressed by everybody at various critical times in the progression of life.
It does allude to consider what important words have been part of your life. And generally, if indeed words are important to you, what words would you like to leave behind? And what words do you think others remember you by. I still hear words my parents frequently used when I was growing up. And friends are often known by certain words they repeatedly use. To use the current vernacular enjoy your life today!
A Room of One’s Own is an extended essay by Virginia Woolf, first published in September 1929. The work is based on two lectures Woolf delivered in October 1928 at Newnham College and Girton College, women’s colleges at the University of Cambridge. It is an emphatic statement on emancipation and empowerment of women. And it clearly articulates the personal restrictions of being a woman in the life of Virginia Woolf. If you want to see the improvement that has been made in recognition of women compare the restrictive time of the early twentieth century in England.
But I was interested to see what she had to say about books and writing. And in particular how such written expression has the ability to enhance reality in the sharing of human experience. The following is an extract from her essay encouraging women to write.
There runs through these comments and discursions the conviction—or is it the instinct? — that good. books are desirable and that good writers, even if they show every variety of human depravity, are still good human beings. Thus when I ask you to write more books I am urging you to do what will be for your good and for the good of the world at large. How to justify this instinct or belief I do not know, for philosophic words, if one has not been educated at a university, are apt to play one false. What is meant by 'reality'? It would seem to be something very erratic, very undependable—now to be found in a dusty road, now in a scrap of newspaper in the street, now a daffodil in the sun. It lights up a group in a room and stamps some casual saying. It overwhelms one walking home beneath the stars and makes the silent world more real than the world of speech—and then there it is again in an omnibus in the uproar of Piccadilly. Sometimes, too, it seems to dwell in shapes too far away for us to discern what their nature is. But whatever it touches, it fixes and makes permanent. That is what remains over when the skin of the day has been cast into the hedge; that is what is left of past time and of our loves and hates.
Now the writer, as I think, has the chance to live more than other people in the presence of this reality. It is his business to find it and collect it and communicate it to the rest of us. So at least I infer from reading Lear or Emma or La Recherche du Temps Perdu. For the reading of these books seems to perform a curious couching operation on the senses; one sees more intensely afterwards; the world seems bared of its covering and given an intense life. Those are the enviable people who live at enmity with unreality; and those are the pitiable who are knocked on the head by the thing done without knowing or caring. So that when I ask you to earn money and have a room of your own, I am asking you to live in the presence of reality, an invigorating life, it would appear, whether one can impart it or not.
What would life be like if we didn’t have books and written words in general to surround us and give us meaning. No matter in what form a person writes and whether or not the legacy of work deemed as literature. As I sit in my study I am surrounded by the living thoughts and life expression of so many different people and I give a big thankyou. Equally I encourage others to share the reality of an envigorating life in such manner.
why do they do it everything named bolded in large font yes, he is sitting in the LOUNGE and yes, I do know he is JOHN for the last two years unknown to self
well, he maybe JOHN to someone else the body that must be fed the body that must be clean the body that must be monitored the JOHN that provides an income
John this is Peter, you remember me PETER it doesn’t matter how big the font or if I raise my voice, he doesn’t remember and never will I guess, we played tennis together for many years, invincible at doubles
John and Peter champions but he is focused on the electronic screen I don’t know why they have it on all the time at least it’s muted … SILENCE.
I always have my eye on the CLOCK the minutes that are hours and I can’t wait to escape to go to the exit the exit that is not obvious
the exit that they can never find locked forever on the inside and then into fresh air, and let John flood back in memory another uncomfortable visit
Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot 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.
Oh my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frosts, in a dawn of cornflowers.
Sylvia Plath (27 October 1962)
Analysis …
Nothing in sun and sky can match the poppy skirts (petals) in their colour … nor the woman (reference to herself) in the ambulance whose red heart is amazingly kept alive … the woman (SP) close to death … others not so lucky … she has been rescued and will survive.
This late showing is out of context with the season … and is a gift unasked for …and in this regard, SP could be talking about her astoundingly good luck in surviving her earlier suicide attempt … her red heart did bloom … how come she was saved? … how come she was given a second chance? … SP did not ask for this … to be re-born … at least she acknowledges this gift as a ‘love-gift’ … even if she is not thankful.
… the medicos that saved her did not know her … see her red passion, her emotional state … how could they … they wear bowler hats … head-centric on their work
… and then the lament of not knowing who she is … the poppy in October … out of context … but still alive … she cries aloud for some understanding … why should she be alive in a ‘forest of frosts’ (in a deep tangle where growth is unlikely – how she saw her life) and in a ‘dawn of cornflowers’ (emerging against the bland mass of the common … a little arogance perhaps)
Note … this poem was written on SP’s last birthday (27 Oct 1962) … her 30th birthday … at a time when she was living by herself (with the two children) in London – separated from Ted Hughes … she also wrote another poem ‘Ariel’ on the same day … so she had time to herself on this day to devote to poetry … and to question her existence … to question why she has survived out of season (like the poppy) … and to ask why she is still alive … and inferred – why is live so hard … it is a cry for an explanation from the deep intensity of her being for a meaning in her troubled world … questioned in a state of mental unrest.
… and whether any physical poppies were around on this her birthday is open to question … they could be mind-poppies … (refer also to a previous poem ‘Poppies in July’ written in Devon in the summer … when times were different.)
And this is what AI (CHATgpt) had to say about this poem illustrating the dangers of using AI without careful attention to the response …
“Poppies in October” is one of Sylvia Plath’s poignant poems, reflecting her complex relationship with nature, life, and death. In this poem, she explores themes of beauty, transience, and the inevitable decay that accompanies life.
The imagery of poppies, often associated with remembrance and sleep, takes on multiple layers of meaning in Plath’s hands. They are portrayed as fragile and ephemeral, yet their vibrant red hue contrasts sharply with the barrenness of autumn, suggesting a defiance against mortality.
Plath’s use of language is characteristic of her poetic style—rich in symbolism and laden with emotion. The juxtaposition of “scarecrow” and “blood-burned barns” evokes a sense of desolation and decay, while the “golden mummies” suggest a haunting beauty amidst the inevitable march of time.
The poem’s closing lines, “Now she is flying / More terrible than she ever was, red / Scar in the sky, red / Comet / Over the engine that killed her— / The mausoleum, the wax house,” hint at the speaker’s acceptance of death as a transformative force. The image of the poppy as a “red / Scar in the sky” suggests a lingering presence even in death, a reminder of the fragility and resilience of life.
Overall, “Poppies in October” is a powerful meditation on mortality, capturing both the beauty and sorrow inherent in the cycle of life and death. Plath’s adept use of imagery and language imbues the poem with a haunting quality that lingers in the mind of the reader long after the final lines have been read.
Quite clearly the text that I have highlighted in red above refers to the different SP poem Stings.
Here is the last stanza of Stings ...
Now she is flying More terrible than she ever was, red Scar in the sky, red comet Over the engine that killed her ---- The mausoleum, the wax house.
It is interesting that AI picked up these lines. The red scar in the sky could have association with a poppy. And after her suicide attempt in the cellar she had a scar on her face enhancing personification. Stings was written in early October 1962. That month SP was really flying in terms of her poetic creativity.
… and here is a poppy from the Australian spring a poppy very much in season.
A postscript Post – For Mother’s Day, 12 May in Australia …
There are two important passages concerning Jesus and his close caring contact with his mother.
The Wedding at Cana (John 2:1-11): This is where Jesus performs his first miracle, turning water into wine, at a wedding feast in Cana. Jesus’ mother Mary plays a significant role in this event, as she informs Jesus that the hosts have run out of wine. Although Jesus initially seems hesitant to intervene, Mary instructs the servants to do whatever Jesus tells them to do, prompting him to perform the miracle. It is the start of his public ministry at the bequest of Mary.
The Crucifixion (John 19:25-27): During the crucifixion of Jesus, we see Mary standing near the cross along with other women, witnessing her son’s suffering. Jesus, in his final moments, entrusts the care of his mother to the beloved disciple (traditionally identified as John), saying to Mary, “Woman, behold your son!” and to the disciple, “Behold your mother!” This passage highlights Jesus’ concern for his mother’s well-being.
In the time of Jesus the stereotype image of mother is one of subservience and background duties as an adjunct to male dominance. Today the mother image has changed but father image has become tainted by current domestic violence concerns. Those victims of such abuse might well hold negativity in the reference to our father and heaven in the Lord’s Prayer. Especially those outside the traditional church view of Father. And those that equate creation with love outside personification.
I attempted to find some balance by including a reference to mother in the following contemporary version below …
Our Father
Our Father, Mother of all life living in timeless beauty your name is sacred always to be praised and adored you created our world and continue to transform the wonder of your creation
we thank you each day for having given us your son
forgive our wrong behaviour as we forgive the wrongs of others
you know us intimately, guide our lives and protect us from harm
for you are all good, pure love, and perfect all honour, power, and glory are yours now and forever.
Richard Scutter (first published in a Yass Valley Writers anthology)
Well, the time has come … the Richard said … reaching the leadup to that transition stage in life … for I have personal projects that must take priority, so I must refrain from continuing Posting on this Site … at least until further notice … in the meantime here are some statistics on the viewing of Posts from my WordPress account …
From 5 April 2011 to 25 December 2022 … 479 Posts created …
A sip and a smoke on the back porch, then its starts to snow; it seems the night has decided to number its ghosts.
No snowflakes settle; beyond reproach, all absolved — go, go, — a cull of light; as my birthday remembers its lost.
Carol Ann Duffy (1955 -
December 23
pavlova and BBQ on the beach the day full of light and gives warmth to all the cells of my now
so many memories have rescinded like missing snowflakes that once came to my window and momentarily settled before melting away
Richard Scutter
Well interesting that I share a birthday with Carol Ann Duffy. And that she mentions the snow in relation to the passing years as people like ghosts are recalled before fading like disappearing flakes of snow.
It was snowing heavily when I was born. It was so cold, I got quite a shock. I am still recovering.
my word in your ear 