In the poem, the narrator walks in a wintry landscape and ponders the loss "Already your doll grip lets go. Once marshy and very much outside London, part farmland, part private estate, by the mid nineteenth century the Heath was being transformed into a leisure space for the public. Several attempts to sell it off for "development" met with vigorous opposition and, ultimately, failure. Parliament Hill Fields is the name given to the south-eastern portion of the Heath.
On this bald hill the new year hones its edge. Faceless and pale as china The round sky goes on minding its business. Your absence is inconspicuous; Nobody can tell what I lack.
Gulls have threaded the river's mud bed back To this crest of grass. Inland, they argue, Settling and stirring like blown paper Or the hands of an invalid. The wan Sun manages to strike such tin glints From the linked ponds that my eyes wince And brim; the city melts like sugar.
A crocodile of small girls Knotting and stopping, ill-assorted, in blue uniforms, Opens to swallow me. I'm a stone, a stick, One child drops a barrette of pink plastic; None of them seem to notice.
Their shrill, gravelly gossip's funneled off. Now silence after silence offers itself. The wind stops my breath like a bandage. Southward, over Kentish Town, an ashen smudge Swaddles roof and tree. It could be a snowfield or a cloudbank. I suppose it's pointless to think of you at all.
Already your doll grip lets go. The tumulus, even at noon, guards its black shadow: You know me less constant, Ghost of a leaf, ghost of a bird. I circle the writhen trees. I am too happy.
These faithful dark-boughed cypresses Brood, rooted in their heaped losses. Your cry fades like the cry of a gnat. I lose sight of you on your blind journey, While the heath grass glitters and the spindling rivulets Unspool and spend themselves.
My mind runs with them, Pooling in heel-prints, fumbling pebble and stem. The day empties its images Like a cup or a room. The moon's crook whitens, Thin as the skin seaming a scar.
Now, on the nursery wall, The blue night plants, the little pale blue hill In your sister's birthday picture start to glow. The orange pompons, the Egyptian papyrus Light up. Each rabbit-eared Blue shrub behind the glass Exhales an indigo nimbus, A sort of cellophane balloon.
The old dregs, the old difficulties take me to wife. Gulls stiffen to their chill vigil in the drafty half-light; I enter the lit house.About Sylvia Plath Sylvia Plath () is a poet whose troubled life and powerful work remains a source of controversy.
Born in Boston in the USA she was precociously intelligent, publishing her first poem at the age of eight. Sep 08, · Plath wrote "Parliament Hill Fields" in February while living at Chalcot Square. It's about a miscarriage she'd had the previous autumn, and her progression from mourning the lost child to embracing her living daughter and the realities of daily life.
Basically, it's a poem about recovery. I found Parliament Hill and climbed it. Imagery as a Roadmap in Parliament Hill Fields In Sylvia Plaths poem, Parliament Hill Fields, a small glimpse into the struggle of losing a child is seen.
The poem, which takes place a short distance from where Plath lived illustrates a mental journey along a path she often took home. Parliament Hill Fields by Sylvia lausannecongress2018.com this bald hill the new year hones its edge.
Faceless and pale as china The round sky goes on minding its business. Your absence is inconspicuous. Page. This is an analysis of the poem Parliament Hill Fields that begins with: On this bald hill the new year hones its edge. Faceless and pale as china.
Oct 27, · Sylvia Plath wrote the poem "Parliament Hill Fields" in February , in London, very shortly after suffering the miscarriage which is the poem's subject. In the poem, the narrator walks in a wintry landscape and ponders the loss ("Already your doll grip lets go.") Towards the end of the poem, there is a sense of renewed lausannecongress2018.com: Sylvia Plath Info.