November Graveyard
by Sylvia Plath
The scene stands stubborn: skinflint trees
Hoard last year’s leaves, won’t mourn, wear sackcloth, or turn
To elegiac dryads, and dour grass
Guards the hard-hearted emerald of its grassiness
However the grandiloquent mind may scorn
Such poverty. No dead men’s cries
Flower forget-me-nots between the stones
Paving this grave ground. Here’s honest rot
To unpick the heart, pare bone
Free of the fictive vein. When one stark skeleton
Bulks real, all saints’ tongues fall quiet:
Flies watch no resurrections in the sun.
At the essential landscape stare, stare
Till your eyes foist a vision dazzling on the wind:
Whatever lost ghosts flare,
Damned, howling in their shrouds across the moor
Rave on the leash of the starving mind
Which peoples the bare room, the blank, untenanted air.
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Sylvia Plath, Collected Poems; from ‘November Graveyard’ (edited excerpt)
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Watch "Sylvia Plath reads "November Graveyard"" on YouTube
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Pictures from yesterday's walk through the cemetery
Part 3
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I finished a tribute sketch that I made for Neil Gaiman's Birthday, the amazing author who's given us the Sandman of our Dreams, the Coraline of our Mischief, the Stardust of our Skies, the Didi of our Eternity, the Graveyard of our Mysteries, and so many more!
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All Saints’ Day (Wszystkich Świętych) in Poland
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My most hopeless romantic trait is passing by a pretty graveyard on a mild night around midnight in my car with the windows down and thinkin: "damn, it's a great night to fuck behind a mausoleum"
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Cemetery Sunset by Kevin B. Moore
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