It was a Wednesday,
the postman in glorious blue,
a horrific thin letter
in your mailbox.
Across the street
the plump woman watched,
you tore it open,
birthday present in June.
Rejections, maybe.
But no. Instead
black words
said something other.
Happiness crashed upon you,
jumping up, up and down
as if on a trampoline,
a fire, smothering the dark.
Accepted.
You called it a creative wave,
rising, frothing wildly
and falling again.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
It was a Wednesday,
the postman in glorious blue,
a horrific thin letter
in your mailbox.
Across the street
the plump woman watched,
you tore it open,
birthday present in June.
Rejections, maybe.
But no. Instead
black words
said something other.
Happiness crashed upon you,
jumping up, up and down
as if on a trampoline,
a fire, smothering the dark.
Accepted.
You called it a creative wave,
rising, frothing wildly
and falling again.
Written: May 2013.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time and another possible inclusion to my third year university dissertation about Hughes and Plath. On Wednesday 25th June 1958, SP received a letter informing her two of her poems would be published in The New Yorker.
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