Mushrooms

MUSHROOMS

By Sylvia Plath

Analysis By 
Janelle Spiers

Overnight, very

Whitely, discreetly,

Very quietly

Our toes, our noses

Take hold on the loam,

Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,

Stops us, betrays us;

The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on

Heaving the needles,

The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.

Our hammers, our rams,

Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,

Widen the crannies,

Shoulder through holes.  We

Diet on water,

On crumbs of shadow,

Bland mannered, asking

Little or nothing.

So many of us!

So many of us!

We are shelves, we are

Tables, we are meek,

We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers

In spite of ourselves.

Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning

Inherit the earth.

Our foot’s in the door.

            Mushrooms, by Sylvia Plath, does not sound any more exciting than the real organism.  The title of this poem is the simple, edible mushrooms, nothing more.  However, with beautiful choices of words and descriptions, Plath manages to describe something simple and turn it into something grand on a small scale.  The poem is describing the growth and blooming of mushrooms, as they “inherit the earth,” silently, unobserved, poke themselves out of the dirt into the open. 

            Written in tercets of five syllables each, Plath uses metaphors, personification, and imagery to clearly convey the secretiveness of the mushroom bloom.  Personifying the mushrooms with noses, toes, fists, ears, eyes and voices, makes pictures in our minds, allowing us to tie everyday sights to the growing mushrooms.  The attitude of this poem is subdued, yet very confident, as the pluralized colony of mushrooms make their move in the dead of night. 

            Sylvia Plath wrote this poem in 1959, three years after her marriage to Ted Hughes.  Plath had a shattered childhood when her father died from lung cancer.  For years after that, she suffered from depression and made several attempts to commit suicide.  Her career as a writer and a mother ended in 1963 when she finally succeeded in taking her life.

            Perhaps her depressing past and troubled mind affected the writing of this poem.  Maybe she wanted to convey hope, that even though these mushrooms travel through shadow and darkness, they must eventually come out into the light.  It’s possible she wanted to share her own story, silent, unwatched, alone, she tried to convey the lonely, darker side of nature through her poem.  Whatever she intended to convey, one thing is certain, Plath has created a mysterious, silent, yet confident, bold colony of mushrooms, on a quest to divide and conquer.

            Mushrooms by Sylvia Plath is simple, yet elegant.  Her title does not seem to adequately capture the beauty and haunting words of her poem.  She describes a colony of mushrooms, blooming and unfolding in the dark of night, unwatched and stealthy, yet in the morning, they break out of the earth in to the light, revealing themselves to the world.

Picture Poetry

I am dabbling in the art of Picture Poetry.  I hope that you can tell what I mean by observation and poetic appreciation.  I am quite taken with this art form, and hope that you enjoy it with me, both visually and poetically.  

           THE CRY OF THE SOUL

I wish I was                            a pioneer; to

Travel unknown                       lands.  I wish I was

An ocean beach; to live             with wave and sands.

 I wish I was a battle cry; to be a marching song.  I wish

I was a warrior; I’d have courage and be strong.  I wish I

 Was a joyful tear, so all the sorrow blurs.  I wish I was

   a President; to give a speech that stirs.  I wish I was

     a puppy dog; I’d smile and be your friend.  I wish

        I was a patient nurse; all my help, I’d lend.  I

            wish I was a rainbow; high above in the

                sky.  I wish I was a thundercloud;

                     My tears would freely cry.  I

                        Wish I was a pioneer; to

                              Travel unknown

                                 Lands.  I wish

                                    I was… I

                                        wish.

NEVER A MOMENT TO SPARE

The 

Tree stands

Alone in the woods;

Never 

A minute

To spare.  The tree

Is so busy thinking big

Thoughts, it won't hear you 

Coming.

No, it won't

Hear you coming 

until you're upon it, as 

you coax it out of its dreams.

The tree stands alone in the woods;

Never a 

Minute 

To spare.

Observing "The Railway Children"

" "A presentation! That means presents," said Peter, as his sisters, having duly washed the pegs and wiped the line, hung up the dresses to dry. "Whatever will it be?"

"It might be anything," said Phyllis; "what I've always wanted is a Baby elephant—but I suppose they wouldn't know that."

"Suppose it was gold models of steam-engines?" said Bobbie.

"Or a big model of the scene of the prevented accident," suggested Peter, "with a little model train, and dolls dressed like us and the engine-driver and fireman and passengers."

"Do you LIKE," said Bobbie, doubtfully, drying her hands on the rough towel that hung on a roller at the back of the scullery door, "do you LIKE us being rewarded for saving a train?"

"Yes, I do," said Peter, downrightly; "and don't you try to come it over us that you don't like it, too. Because I know you do."

"Yes," said Bobbie, doubtfully, "I know I do. But oughtn't we to be satisfied with just having done it, and not ask for anything more?"

"Who did ask for anything more, silly?" said her brother; "Victoria Cross soldiers don't ASK for it; but they're glad enough to get it all the same. Perhaps it'll be medals. Then, when I'm very old indeed, I shall show them to my grandchildren and say, 'We only did our duty,' and they'll be awfully proud of me."

"You have to be married," warned Phyllis, "or you don't have any grandchildren."

"I suppose I shall HAVE to be married some day," said Peter, "but it will be an awful bother having her round all the time. I'd like to marry a lady who had trances, and only woke up once or twice a year." "

~ The Railway Children, Edith Nesbit, Chapter VII

Re-reading The Railway Children has brought me a great deal of joy and mirth.  It really is amusing, yet sweet at times.  E. Nesbit has a wonderful way of writing.  She expresses her stories as if you were sitting by her hearth in the dark of a winter evening with a hot cup of tea, listening to her tell you a story about her famous little characters.  

Edith Bland (Which was her married name) had a difficult life, starting from a very young age.  Her father died when she was only four, and due to her sister's poor health, they traveled frequently searching for better air for Mary.  Her marriage was unhappy, too, and one of her sons died when he was only fifteen due to a poor tonsil operation.  I never knew anything about Edith until today, and I feel very sorry for her.

Yet in all of her troubles and sorrows, she wrote nearly 60 books for children and adults; a truly amazing accomplishment.  They include short stories for children, poetry for children and adults, novels for children and adults, and even a non-fiction work for adults. Some of her most memorable works are her children's novels, such as Five Children and It, The Wouldbegoods, and Wet Magic.  And of course, which is now bringing a happy smile to my face, The Railway Children.