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Description
2020 acrylic on cartulina
Sylvia Plath had a horse named Ariel. Early one mornig she went for a ride. The horse spotted some berries and stopped suddenly, throwing Sylvia off the horse. She went home, dirty from the fall, and showered. She wrote a poem about her experience.

Ariel

BY SYLVIA PLATH

    Stasis in darkness.

    Then the substanceless blue

    Pour of tor and distances.



    God’s lioness,

    How one we grow,

    Pivot of heels and knees!—The furrow



    Splits and passes, sister to

    The brown arc

    Of the neck I cannot catch,



    Nigger-eye

    Berries cast dark

    Hooks—



    Black sweet blood mouthfuls,

    Shadows.

    Something else



    Hauls me through air—

    Thighs, hair;

    Flakes from my heels.



    White

    Godiva, I unpeel—

    Dead hands, dead stringencies.



    And now I

    Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.

    The child’s cry



    Melts in the wall.

    And I

    Am the arrow,



    The dew that flies

    Suicidal, at one with the drive

    Into the red



    Eye, the cauldron of morning.

Description
2020 acrylic on cartulina
Sylvia Plath had a horse named Ariel. Early one mornig she went for a ride. The horse spotted some berries and stopped suddenly, throwing Sylvia off the horse. She went home, dirty from the fall, and showered. She wrote a poem about her experience.

Ariel

BY SYLVIA PLATH

    Stasis in darkness.

    Then the substanceless blue

    Pour of tor and distances.



    God’s lioness,

    How one we grow,

    Pivot of heels and knees!—The furrow



    Splits and passes, sister to

    The brown arc

    Of the neck I cannot catch,



    Nigger-eye

    Berries cast dark

    Hooks—



    Black sweet blood mouthfuls,

    Shadows.

    Something else



    Hauls me through air—

    Thighs, hair;

    Flakes from my heels.



    White

    Godiva, I unpeel—

    Dead hands, dead stringencies.



    And now I

    Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.

    The child’s cry



    Melts in the wall.

    And I

    Am the arrow,



    The dew that flies

    Suicidal, at one with the drive

    Into the red



    Eye, the cauldron of morning.