Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
SøułSurvivør Jul 2015
---

there was an equine artist
who cut herself while in art class

she blended the blood
into the paint and
used it to render the horses mane

she was put in an insane asylum

many gifted people
are "insane"

are their minds designed differently
to show us the hell inside
so we could come to terms with
our own hearts and minds
and their deepest dungeons
of angst and emotions?
our own poetic expression
and voice?
our most profound space of fear?

Plath was a diety
Sexton a goddess
Van Gogh an icon

he cut off his own ear

an artist also bleeds
"If you ***** me,  do I not bleed?"
- Shakespeare -

---
epictails Jun 2015
Whatever did Sylvia Plath
and Anne Sexton
have in common?

—two great minds
of the literary canon
who drove themselves
to the proverbial crimson

One gassed herself
like a condemned Jew
the other stayed in her car
letting the breathlessness brew
A melody of the swans that
not even Beethoven
could undo

What could have been
in their poetry
that consumed them in
the deepest misery
—like one of a dark soliloquy
or a dying plea?
I've recently become interested in the life of Sylvia Plath. One person told me a poem of mine reminded him of Sylvia Plath's. When I looked her up I learned of her and several other poets ending their lives in the most miserable manner. In fact, I found a list of 100 plus great poets and writers who did it. Even Ernest Hemingway shot himself with his beloved shotgun, to my surprise. A considerable number of them were manic-depressives, sad to say.

Plath's main style of poetry is confessional poetry, some sort of subtype of lyric poetry, I guess. In fact, her and Anne Sexton (who also killed herself together with John Berryman) popularized the style. This is a far-fetched idea but I think their poetry is part of what made them commit suicide. Confessional poetry focuses on the poet's psyche, individuality and even their very own demons. They sure had some dark issues but couple that with writing that leaves anyone bare, open and vulnerable to personal pain and depression could very well drive some people to death. I just realized while reading their stories and even their accomplishments how writing could get very dark. It's such a risky career if not wedged in the right direction. I always thought it would all be rainbows and fields of daisies. But then it goes deeper than that.

And that concludes my little blog entry and research haha. To be honest, confessional poetry is my favorite and most of my poems are of that style. I believe it's so pure and raw but is also the most tasking to write.
Maria Imran Jun 2015
4th
"It is June. I am tired of being brave."
--Anne Sexton, The Truth The Dead Know.
There is no courage in questions
We know someone will answer
Answers that take us nowhere
Informational fodder, answers that do not heal

There is no courage in questions
We know will leave our world intact
Answers that take us nowhere
Details that make a case, but do not heal

But what is the question we fear?

Do you love her?
Yes.
Do you still love me?
Yes.
Mike Essig Apr 2015
Portrait of an Old Woman on the College Tavern Wall**
BY ANNE SEXTON

   Oh down at the tavern
the children are singing
around their round table
and around me still.
Did you hear what it said?

                   I only said
how there is a pewter urn
pinned to the tavern wall,
as old as old is able
to be and be there still.
I said, the poets are there
I hear them singing and lying
around their round table
and around me still.
Across the room is a wreath
made of a corpse’s hair,
framed in glass on the wall,
as old as old is able
to be and be remembered still.
Did you hear what it said?

                  I only said
how I want to be there and I
would sing my songs with the liars
and my lies with all the singers.
And I would, and I would but
it’s my hair in the hair wreath,
my cup pinned to the tavern wall,
my dusty face they sing beneath.
Poets are sitting in my kitchen.
Why do these poets lie?
Why do children get children and
Did you hear what it said?

                  I only said
how I want to be there,
Oh, down at the tavern
where the prophets are singing
around their round table
until they are still.

— The End —