Fitting for Sylvia Plath, who changed the landscape of life in the 20th century, with her one short yet deeply mined life.
All there is left to say from me, is happy 91st birthday Sylvia, you are the only poet who can get me out of bed at 3am in the morning to write.
Rest In Pennines.
Sylvia Plath you make me laugh. I'm writing in a rush. It’s 4am. The bile. The bitchy-sleeve. The frayed frugal pleasure-pain. It's late. It’s early. Fogging brain. Eyes squint painfully at the screen. Questless as the bulls in Spain. It never stops transmitting, clanging foghorn endlessly banging on about climate change. Just stop. Make it go away. Sweet soft plate. Open up. Touch me once again. That’s the spot. Yes right there. Right behind my amygdala.
Sylvia Plath you make me laugh. That might seem strange to most. For I admire the way you fire up, wires in the frightened brain. Happy bullets, language gun. A language nurse in blood and pace. From Jamaica Plain, to Smith College town, immune to race and riot, a stubborn literary goat, jumps suddenly ahead.
Sylvia Plath you make me laugh. Must beat Virginia back to tears. Those lit bitches and boring profs and boy geniuses I pursue, know not where my true heart lies – forever Roget's slut.* Drink wine before it turns to vinegar, keep the wolves at bay.
Sylvia Plath you make me laugh. The names go down hand-in-hand, North of Dublin town, on Bloom’s Day jauntily. Two names now, two fingers up, to two black eyes on the last century. The restless hawk is now the prey. The bite, the kiss, the punt, the lift. Nineteen flicking fifty six. So amazing, noses grazing. Like literally totes two souls so lit.
Sylvia Plath you make me laugh. A gallows belly guffaw. Cold draft, crawls up, taking sides from beneath the kitchen floor. Determined breaths, flap flap flap. It's dark down here in marital strife. It's light up there as your wife. Come down before you fall. Feathers smirk. Lifting, laughing hard and clear. The stark white lightbulb signifies there's not much wrong with you.
Sylvia Plath you make me laugh. I’m at your grave, overgrown with dawn's stamping feet, I in my Adidas trackie, high on ecstasy. We dance together you and I, two ghosts in Heptonstall, ballroom and body-popping ameliorating American misery. What would you say about those two towers, those two front teeth, knocked-out so brutally? Wire them back, put falsies in, brace them back together again with inconsistent imagery? Only you can make sense of this I cry, I lean forward to listen in, then these words catch my eye (fiercest flames: say them silently) and I fall back clumsily.
Sylvia Plath you make me laugh. Trapped six feet under Yorkshire grit. Rolling in the mud no doubt, those dark eyes enduring fame. Perhaps, like Cathy, from heaven, angels will fling you out, to carry Heathcliff on the farm. It is now years later, the word yield grows in constant trauma raining down. Horrors of the mind abound; black flowers dance along.
Sylvia Plath you make me laugh. Rise up out of the swamp tonight. I need you once again. You never knew, what we now know. We never knew you then. Never will the twain meet up. Neither will, I suspect, we know your likes again.
Sylvia Plath you make me laugh. Infinite to the end.
* For anyone who has ever been truly touched by a single word of Sylvia Plath’s creative genius, such as me when I discovered she called herself "Roget's strumpet".For more of my Sylvia Plath blogs read Mummy and Mad Girl's Love SongYou still want more Sylvia Plath? Try Lithub's article on Sylvia Plath...Nature Writer?
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