Lines from my favourite Sylvia Plath poem have been popping into my head lately. It troubles me slightly. I went through a couple of phases in which her works became a point of major interest and they tended to be rough times. I no longer feel the deep dark connection that I once did, but something lingers. An attachment to the words, the feelings they evoke, an appreciation for great writing.
----
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
----
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
----
... my two favourite passages.
Though times have changed, I've changed, these words have remained with me.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand in foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
And still more ...
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
'melts to a shriek' ... how I love that ...