Poetry at the Parsonage - first weekend of July - *Richard Wilcocks writes:* Matthew Withey and Mark ConnorsOn the Parsonage website (see links on the right of this page) you can read all about the signific...
16 hours ago
|Sylvia Plath with her typewriter in Yorkshire, September 1956|
I never thought I could like any country as well as the ocean, but these moors are really even better, with the great luminous emerald lights changing always, and the animals and wildness. Read Wuthering Heights again here and really felt it this time more than ever. (September 11, 1956)
We spent one athletic day hiking ten miles over the moors and swamps from Wuthering Heights, where I did [a] sketch in the freezing wind. Saw museum of Brontës, things in the old Parsonage - incredible miniature children's books of a magic kingdom they made up, in tiny print with exquisite, luminous watercolors, what creative children! Charlotte did the loveliest little watercolors. Will write article about it this week. (September 28, 1956)
|Wuthering Heights Today. Sketch by Sylvia Plath,1956|
Most people never get there, but stop in town for tea, pink frosted cakes, souvenir's & colored photographs of the place too far to talk to, visiting the Church of St. Michael & All Angels, the black stone rectory rooms of memorabilia - wooden cradle, Charlotte's bridal crown of heirloom lace & honeysuckle, Emily's death couch, the small, luminous books & watercolors, the beaded napkin ring, the Apostle cupboard. They touched this, wore that, wrote here in a house redolent with ghosts. There are two ways to the stone house, both tiresome.
One, the public route from the town along green pastureland over stone stiles to the voluble white cataract that that drops its long rag of water over rocks warped round, green-slimed, across a wooden footbridge to terrain of goat-foot-flattened grasses where a carriage road Ran a hundred years back in a time grand with the quick of their shaping tongues worn down to broken wall, old cellar hole, gate pillars leading from sheep turf to grouse country. The old carriage road's a sunk rut, the spring clear well & gurgle under grass too green to believe. The hulk of matted grey hair & a long skull to mark a sheepfold, a track worn, losing itself, but not lost.
The other - across the slow heave, hill on hill from any other direction across bog down to the middle of the world, green-slimed, boots squelchy - brown peat - earth untouched except by grouse foot - bluewhite spines of gorse, the burnt-sugar bracken - all eternity, wildness, loneliness - peat-colored water - the house - small, lasting, pebbles on roof, name scrawls on rock - inhospitable two trees on the lee side of the hill where the long winds come, piece the light in a stillness. The furious ghosts nowhere but in the heads of the visitors & the yellow-eyed shag sheep
House of love lasts as long as love in human mind - blue-spidling gorse.
Two views of Top Withins (1957)
Wuthering Heights (1961)