I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
Falling in love in your head is maddening. I should know:)
Sylvia Plath may have been a neurotic poet with a strange intelligent aptitude and an unhappy temparament but sometimes I think her life has been given far more importance than her work. She lived and died in unhappiness and is remembered for the way she died rather than what she wrote.
There is a panther stalks me down:
One day I'll have my death of him;
His greed has set the woods aflame,
He prowls more lordly than the sun.
Most soft, most suavely glides that step,
Advancing always at my back;
From gaunt hemlock, rooks croak havoc:
The hunt is on, and sprung the trap.
Flayed by thorns I trek the rocks,
Haggard through the hot white noon.
Along red network of his veins
What fires run, what craving wakes?
What fire drove her to suicide? What blood runs through her poems that still hurts our eyes as we read? Always sadness sparks off creativity. Always the hot oven and the hanging lime promise quality. Sadly for a poet life sometimes is the bait.
No comments:
Post a Comment