For beaches, cabbages, and kings, from poets.org.
from The Walrus and Carpenter / by Lewis Carroll
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand:
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
‘If this were only cleared away,’
They said, ‘it would be grand!’
For a poetry lesson that ends badly, from Jabberwocky & Other Poems.
from Poeta Fit, non Nascitur / by Lewis Carroll
Don’t state the matter plainly,
But put it in a hint;
And learn to look at all things
With a sort of mental squint
For wonder-land, from Jabberwocky & Other Poems.
from How Doth… / by Lewis Carroll
How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail
For big tests, such as the one I head to today, from Jabberwocky & Other Poems.
from Rules and Regulations / by Lewis Carroll
Learn well your grammar,
And never stammer,
Write well and neatly,
And sing most sweetly
For if only we had her today, she’d be 84 until her birthday this year, from the St. Martins Press first edition of this (prose) children’s book, The It-Doesn’t-Matter Suit.
from The It-Doesn’t-Matter Suit / by Sylvia Plath
wonderful
woolly
whiskery
brand-new
mustard-yellow
IT-DOESN’T-MATTER SUIT
For her looking back over such a short life, and for myself, though I’ve wished it, we never could have crossed paths, as Plath died 17 days before I was born, from the Faber and Faber first edition of Winter Trees.
from Mystic / by Sylvia Plath
The children leap in their cots.
The sun blooms, it is a geranium.
The heart has not stopped.
For memories of teenage jobs and all that looking back from a different vantage, from the Faber and Faber first edition of Crossing the Water.
from The Babysitters / by Sylvia Plath
It is ten years, now, since we rowed to Children’s Island.
The sun flamed straight down that noon on the water off Marblehead.
For an almost happy poem, a wishful, wistful poem, from the 1972 Harper & Row first edition of Winter Trees.
from Child / by Sylvia Plath
Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with colors and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose names you meditate —
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little
Stalk
For another favorite poem with a bit of Roethke in it, and a poem which reminds me of the few days of my life I spent in Ireland, one of them in a cottage overlooking the edge of the sea and a stretch of grass ghosted in barely-moving sheets of sheep, from the Faber “paper covered” edition of Ariel.
from Sheep in Fog / by Sylvia Plath
Hooves, dolorous bells —
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,
A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.
For casts and of course Plath’s cast grew a mind of its own, from The London Magazine, February 1962, an issue in which she shares pg. 15 with her husband, Ted Hughes.
from In Plaster / by Sylvia Plath
Without me, she wouldn’t exist, so of course she was grateful.
I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain
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