Just In Case There Is Ever Any Doubt

about Sylvia Plath’s courage and brilliance, listen to this then attempt to write something half as good. I will tell you, she is the bar by which I have always measured my own ability to move the letters into position, bending phrases with some shocking bloody grazes that impressed me for a few seconds before I had to admit that sadly my work is sterile in comparison. I will go to my grave without even coming close to her flow of graceful language that always dignified the emotional gutter we all must visit at least once; the gutter that devoured her for exposing its core truth for us.


Me and Ms. Plath

Me and Ms. Plath baked a caked

until it was black and charred beyond all recognition

and the noxious fumes of our failed attempt

to nourish the master of thought

filled the room until the dreams started dropping like flies

covering everything with broken reasons we never cared for anyway



Such a fine month for remembering.  Such a fine month for remorse.  Such a fine month for mining the depths of poetic despair.  Although her birthday was October 27, I felt that today of all days would be most appropriate to display the shattering dark talent of Sylvia Plath.  Let her voice carry you to the darkest parts of her soul, immerse yourself in her courage and watch her rise like a phoenix at the end.  She is, without a doubt, the finest poet of the twentieth century and the loss of her perceptive analysis of the female experience has left an empty artistic space that has yet to be filled.