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  JULIA GORDON-BRAMER

“Bucolics”: The Pains of the Pastoral

1/18/2022

1 Comment

 
Picture
A victim of Minamata Disease. Origin of photo unknown.
On the first of May 1956, “Mayday,” Plath’s beloved Grammy died, leaving her husband, “Grampy” Frank Schober, a widower. That day, BBC News announced that Japan was in the throes of an unknown epidemic creating ataxia, convulsions, paralysis, and more. This condition was identified as Minamata Disease, a condition attacking the nervous system due to mercury poisoning.
“Bucolics” was written on May 5, 1956, and reflects this first day of May, as well as both her grandparents and this disease, first observed in pastoral cows and other animals, as “Bucolics” first stanza reflects (CP, 23). The idea of the barbed wire, the pitchfork, thorn, and stinging nettles all reflect the disease’s itching, burning, and pain. With Minamata Disease, skin peels (“They pitched their coats”), and the contamination was primarily found in water (“where water stood”). Plath hints at Japan with the word “Aslant” for the shape of the Asian eye. She and others seemed to initially suspect that this might be some leftover from the atomic bombs dropped during World War II (“Above: leaf-wraithed white air, white cloud”). Plath called “Bucolics,” a “derivative” poem in her calendar, probably due to its traditional structure and cadence.

1956 POEMS, BBC, BUCOLICS, JAPAN, MERCURY POISONING, MINAMATA DISEASE, PASTORAL, PLATH POEM, PLATH'S EARLY POEMS, SYLVIA PLATH
1 Comment
Chris Huck
5/9/2026 01:14:24 pm

I know that this is some time after 2022 but I have just read your article.
You probably won't believe this, but, what I am going to say is 100% true.
In 1956 my older brother asked if I would like to go on his motor bike to Hardcastle Crags near Mytholmroyd and Hebden Bridge.
I was 12 years old. I know that it was late August, early September because we had just moved house in August 1956 and we went from the new house.
Hardcastle Crags is a steep wooded valley with an old factory in the bottom which has a mill pond.
We walked up the left had side and coming back down the right hand side, through the trees, we came across a grassy knoll which overlooked the steep valley and the pond.
On this knoll lying on spread coats were a couple making love.
Now, we'd been brought up to think that anything to do with sex was 'Dirty!', but, what I saw that day was beautiful. It is the only way to describe it.
He with his black hair, white shirt and black trousers, she in her dirndle skirt and blouse with her mousey reddish hair. She delicately stroked his neck and and back as though she were playing a cello between her knees.
This episode lasted less than 30 seconds, after which I had to pull my brother away as, for fun, he was going to disturb them by asking the time which would have dessicrated the scene.
It is a scene engraved in my memory as my first contact of any sort with sex.
40 years later I was reading a biography and I opened a page onto a photograph.
There was the couple I'd seen all that time ago. They wore the same clothes and the photo may have been taken on the same day, at the man's uncle's house, which is at Lumb Bank just beyond Hardcastle Crags and is now a memorial building used for education.
'My God!' I thought 'It was Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath.' The hair stands up on my neck now as I think about it, after 70 years. It's till as fresh in my mind, at 82 years old, as it was then.
When I read 'Buccolics' I realised that the poem was about that day. The grey sky, the knoll overlooking the pond, the spread coats, everything was there including the cattle and the nettles.
Sylvia first went to Mytholmroyd at the end of August 1956, soon after she married Ted, The Mayday date was poetic licence for the alfresco love making and it might also refer to her 'Grammy'. She put as much about herself in her poems as she could.
Sylvia is still there.
She's buried at Heptonstall, not half a mile from where I saw them.
The accepted site of Wuthering Heights is not far over the moors from there, Ted and Sylvia walked there one time.
I know you'll find this interesting. I hope you will respect my memory of what happened and that you will believe what I have said.
I'm a poet myself and Sylvia is my Daphne.
Best Wishes, Chris Huck.

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