"Black Rook in Rainy Weather" by Sylvia Plath

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident.

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, not seek
In the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Leap incandescent

Out of the kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then ---
Thus, hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largess, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull ruinous landscape); sceptical,
Yet politic, ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As if to seize my senses,
Haul my eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again.
The long wait for the angel.
For that rare, random descent.




So, this poem speaks to my orientation, a profundity of isolation and longing. A black bird in the rain the only sign of possibility, in a waning optimism's heart. The self deprecating acknowledgment of the need, yet doubt over miracles and the prison of one that is unabated -- by friendly comfort, the love of the lover. Missing. That ironic loneliness when a marriage fibrillated between quicksand, imprisonment, and betrayal. As Sylvia Plath's and Ted Hughes' marriage did, back in 1962-63.