Waking In Winter

I can taste the tin of the sky —- the real tin thing.
Winter dawn is the color of metal,
The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves.
All night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations —-
An assembly-line of cut throats, and you and I
Inching off in the gray Chevrolet, drinking the green
Poison of stilled lawns, the little clapboard gravestones,
Noiseless, on rubber wheels, on the way to the sea resort.

How the balconies echoed! How the sun lit up
The skulls, the unbuckled bones facing the view!
Space! Space! The bed linen was giving out entirely.
Cot legs melted in terrible attitudes, and the nurses —-
Each nurse patched her soul to a wound and disappeared.
The deathly guests had not been satisfied
With the rooms, or the smiles, or the beautiful rubber plants,
Or the sea, Hushing their peeled sense like Old Mother Morphia.

by Sylvia Plath

Comments (24)

The poem is about the notorious unreliability of weather forecasting, and the forecasters refusal to admit it, across generations of soliciting huge amounts of government money. Now they have satellites and vast computers they are much better than they used to be, but for a century they forecast utter tosh, at vast expense to the public.
this is really beautiful- tons of different interpretations. my first impression, and that of (i presume) many other readers, was that the Great Forecaster was God. It seems that the author was an atheist, or even a questioning believer, looking into the future to find God trapped in hell, stripped of immortality and omnipotence.
Usually never right -weather-people
Forecasting the weather back then was as if. Remembering, Katherine Hepburn's house on the upper east coast. Like a Judge with a defendant before you. Do you punish or save those before you......iip
What a fair weather poem, cloudy with a chance of brilliance. Great, great write! Is it safe to set sail today?
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