“Garret Room”, 1962, Andrew Wyeth.
April 9, 1956
On Friday I shall be home about 8 – expect you then. On the principle that to every sentence of prose there should be six of verse –
Ridiculous to call it love.
Even so, fearfully I did sound
Your absence, as one shot down feels to the wound,
Knowing himself alive
Only by what most frightens, the suddenly
Anxious and kneeling sky, clouds, trees,
The headlong instant that halts, stares, comes close
With an incredulous ghastly eye.
That man struck looks up:
A bird, gathering the world in its throat – one note
About to be heard –, stands, beak agape:
What ghostly hands his hearing strains to it!
One cry – then death, all into darkness.
Hands here were as inadequate, –
Wherever you haunt earth, you are shaped and bright
As the true ghost of my loss.
Boddy was my guest here until the other day – finally pawned his taperecorder to me – for ten pounds – and left. Can you smuggle brandy?
Dorf bei Nacht - Village at Night Edmund Kesting, Germany 1892-1970
Jim Jarmusch & Tom Waits, New York, 1985, Deborah Feingold
Florence Fountain, Boboli Gardens by John Singer Sargent
— Sylvia Plath, from ”Lesbos”