Lumpy pudding

Judging a poem is like judging a pudding or a machine. One demands that it work. Poetry succeeds because all or most of what is said or implied is relevant; what is irrelevant has been excluded, like lumps from pudding and 'bugs' from machinery. (Wimsatt & Beardsley)

Here we celebrate the excluded, lumpy parts of the pudding!

Oct 27, 2011 2:28pm
Sylvia Plath: Poppies in OctoberEven the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.Nor the woman in the ambulance Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly —A gift, a love giftUtterly unasked for By a sky Palely and flamily Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyesDulled to a halt under bowlers.O my God, what am IThat these late mouths should cry openIn a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers. Photo: Sylvia, Ted & Frieda

Sylvia Plath: Poppies in October

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly —

A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky

Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

Photo: Sylvia, Ted & Frieda
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