Plath.
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
That's Mad Girl's Love Song, by Sylvia Plath.
Perhaps it's morbid of me, or at the very least a little trite and obvious of me; but I'm fascinated by the artistic output of the suicidal. I want to know, to feel, whatever it was they couldn't bear to carry around in their hearts. Maybe to try to carry it for them. I don't know.
Anyway, I bring this up because it is time again (now that it's after midnight) for Tunes for Tuesday, and I want you to hear how a band called Fisher have set this poem to beautiful, haunting music.