poezija i proza o detinjstvu, majčinstvu i letu

Month: August 2014

“Bitter Strawberries”, Sylvia Plath

daffodils1

All morning in the strawberry field

They talked about the Russians.
Squatted down between the rows
We listened.
We heard the head woman say,
‘Bomb them off the map.’

Horseflies buzzed, paused and stung.
And the taste of strawberries
Turned thick and sour.

Mary said slowly, ‘I’ve got a fella
Old enough to go.
If anything should happen…’

The sky was high and blue.
Two children laughed at tag
In the tall grass,
Leaping awkward and long-legged
Across the rutted road.
The fields were full of bronzed young men
Hoeing lettuce, weeding celery.

‘The draft is passed,’ the woman said.
‘We ought to have bombed them long ago.’
‘Don’t,’ pleaded the little girl
With blond braids.

Her blue eyes swam with vague terror.
She added petishly, ‘I can’t see why
You’re always talking this way…’
‘Oh, stop worrying, Nelda,’
Snapped the woman sharply.
She stood up, a thin commanding figure
In faded dungarees.
Businesslike she asked us, ‘How many quarts?’
She recorded the total in her notebook,
And we all turned back to picking.

Kneeling over the rows,
We reached among the leaves
With quick practiced hands,
Cupping the berry protectively before
Snapping off the stem
Between thumb and forefinger.

3244916716_61299e5a9d

 

enhanced-buzz-20118-1389222990-13

 

“Perfection is terrible. It cannot have children.”

Take a deep breath

Take a deep breath, take a deep breath, take a deep breath…
Exhale, inhale… so deep your lungs start to hurt.
The pain will make you think of something else, perhaps of the pain itself.

I remember the time when I was out there, when I would meet countless people in a day, when I would talk to them about insignificant things, because I haven’t got the time for significant ones; I remember when I would work from 9 until 7, always in a hurry, when I never had the time for my loved ones. Continue reading

Diši duboko

Ne zaboravi da dišeš, ne zaboravi da dišeš, ne zaboravi da dišeš…
Duboko, duboko, da te pluća zabole.
Bol će mislima skrenuti put.

Sećam se vremena kad sam bila out there, kad sam se sretala sa nebrojeno mnogo ljudi svakog dana, kad sam vodila najviše površnih razgovora, jer nije bilo vremena za dublje; sećam se kad sam radila od 9 do 7, kad sam žurila svugde i kad nisam imala vremena za ljude koje volim. Continue reading

© 2024 Letnje igralište

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑