The Musings of a Boho Girl

bōˈhēmēən (noun) 1. a free spirit ; 2. a writer; 3. an explorer of the Avant-Garde.

Tag: Poetry

Happy Birthday to Sylvia Plath

Sylvia_plath

Fever 103

Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple

Tongues of dull, fat Cerberus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean

The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell

Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora’s scarves, I’m in a fright

One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel,
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,

But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak

Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,

Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.

Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.

Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher’s kiss.

Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.

I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern—

My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.

Does not my heat astound you! And my light!
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.

I think I am going up,
I think I may rise —
The beads of hot metal fly, and I love, I

Am a pure acetylene
Virgin
Attended by roses,

By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean!
Not you, nor him

Nor him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats) —
To Paradise.

Listen to Plath read Fever 103 here.

On February 11th

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Sylvia_plath

Year after year there are articles commemorating the death of Sylvia Plath, it’s hard to read them. How can we commemorate the death of a brilliant mind? I was drawn to Sylvia Plath…her life was beautiful and tragic; her private struggles had become as famous as her poetry. After her suicide people blamed her husband, poet Ted Hughes. Right or wrong, the idea of Sylvia Plath Hughes evoked such anger that her married surname was repeatedly erased from her tombstone. This day is heartbreaking…not just because two children lost their mother but because a woman lost everything: her life, her privacy, and her future. February 11th is the day that happened. It is the day that others began to re-write Sylvia Plath, it’s the day they labeled her a tormented woman, a fragile soul, a vindictive wife, etc. We almost lost her poetry to those labels.

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