As a poet, I'm proud to say that at my best, I am better than Plath at her worst. (Most self-proclaimed "poets" can't say that at all.) However, when Plath is at her best, like in these excerpts, she's among the immortals like Shakespeare, Rilke, Eliot...
They enter as animals from the outer
Space of holly where spikes
Are not the thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi,
But greenness, darkness so pure
They freeze and are.
-----------------------------------
This is what it is like ---
A red burst and a cry
That splits from its ripped bag and does not stop
With the dead eye
And the stuffed expression, but goes on
Dyeing the air,
Telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the water
What immortality is. That it is immortal.
---------------------------------
No comments:
Post a Comment