Edge - Sylvia Plath

The woman is perfected.
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of  a Greek  necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

"Cada homem sempre carregou dentro de si a imagem da mulher; não a imagem desta ou daquela mulher, mas uma imagem feminina definitiva"
Carl Jung

Walking in my Mind

Walking In My Mind at the Hayward Gallery, Southbank Centre: Curators Interview and Tour from Southbank Centre on Vimeo.

O Mar Morto - Kazuo Ono

Patty Chang - In Love