“Fiesta Melons” by Sylvia Plath

In Benidorm there are melons,
Whole donkey-carts full

Of innumerable melons,
Ovals and balls,

Bright green and thumpable
Laced over with stripes

Of turtle-dark green.
Chooose an egg-shape, a world-shape,

Bowl one homeward to taste
In the whitehot noon :

Cream-smooth honeydews,
Pink-pulped whoppers,

Bump-rinded cantaloupes
With orange cores.

Each wedge wears a studding
Of blanched seeds or black seeds

To strew like confetti
Under the feet of

This market of melon-eating

Sylvia Plath

“Blackberrying” by Sylvia Plath

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.

Sylvia Plath


“Found Treasure” by Mark McNease

In a hermetically sealed house whose windows

neither open nor close, he dozes, eyes shut,

listening to the air piped in.

A vent in the ceiling. An earpiece

that when he was young gave earfuls

of what his parents thought: he’s troubled,

that boy, what will we do with him? His mother

seconding everything, Yes he is troubled,

that boy, we could send him away.

And what about the drinking?

What about the sex? What about

the way he sits in his room with a notebook

and a pen. What is he writing in that thing?

He’d had the presence of mind to hide it in the shed

with the lawnmower and a fifth of rum.

It was a spiral pad

of poems, doing his best Anne Sexton

with a splash of Plath. All these years later

he ventures into the shed and finds himself again

in a notebook whose pages are bound by years.

What will they do with him, this troubled man?

Mark McNease

L. K. Thayer’s Foto Fetish

© 2010