The Arrival of the Bee Box

I ordered this, clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.

The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can’t keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can’t see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.

I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.

How can I let them out?

It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

I lay my ear to furious Latin.

I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.

They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

The box is only temporary.

                   - Sylvia Plath

The odd uneven time

That was how Sylvia Plath described August, and this year at least she was proved right. It's probably easiest to sum it up by saying that my blogging muse disappeared for a while.

There was some wargaming however: mid-eighteenth century in the legendary wargames room using Black Powder. I continue to enjoy the rules, although the effect of broken battalia seems a bit odd to me. I will no doubt return to this in due course; I bet you can't wait. I have also been trying to work out how I feel about 'Through the Mud and the Blood' now we have had a few games and, finding that I wasn't coming to any conclusion, have decided to put the period on the back burner and do something different next time we are in the annexe.

Your bloggist walks it off

Cultural life always takes a dip at this time of year, but there have been events in places as diverse as Keighley (Ayckbourn) and Salzburg (Mozart funnily enough). Conversely there has been a fair bit of walking and visits have been made to Bracken Ghyll, the Seven Arches and various other places. And I can't leave without alluding to the very funny goings on at the relaunch of river boats on the Wharfe in Otley, although the same political considerations which stopped the local paper printing the photos also preclude me from providing details.

For C.H.

'Crazy' is a term of art; 'Insane' is a term of law. Remember that and you will save yourself a lot of trouble. 

 - Hunter S. Thomson

Mad Girl's Love Song

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;

I lift my lids and all is born again.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,

And arbitrary blackness gallops in:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed

And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:

Exit seraphim and Satan's men:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,

But I grow old and I forget your name.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;

At least when spring comes they roar back again.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

                                     

- Sylvia Plath