Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jayd Green Oct 2015
happy birthday, sylvia plath
i'm writing you a birthday letter
because nobody does it enough anymore

i studied your book once and
had a horrifying vision
that i would be rejected
and i would forget language and words and
i wouldn't write anymore
like you i suffered to breathe
i suffered to watch and i
found comfort in *****
i couldn't drink it neat like you did
i could fall asleep
but you didn't

your pain pained me
and i wondered what you'd think of
my writing
if we'd swap poems and

but we couldn't
i suffered rejection too
and for a while the words wouldn't come
i slept more and ate less
i smoked more and spoke less
but i found the words again
taught myself from reading dictionaries of loss
and though my bad habits remained
i felt ever so slightly more like me
and less like you

i got better
i wish you did too
Pea Sep 2014
I'll say these meaningless words
over and over and over again:
I love you
I love you
I love you

Even when I think of you as God;
I love you

Young blood, heated and dried
Dead head
You had crawled
Sickeningly sweet

I long for you
Funny duchess!
My Mary ---

Even though my tongue knows only clichés
and sometimes my tongue is too short
to speak human and the other times
my tongue is too long I think it
becomes python ---

I wish you were not dead;
Be here with me
You, omnipresent
I wish I could believe --

You wrote the bible with your own pretty hand --
Your ****** head (my sunrise)
Throbbing heart (still exists)
You have soul like universe
Objectified, scientified

How did you put it in?
And a nebula
Sickeningly sweet
I hope for no regret
Yet I am afraid

Of pureness -- your lethal-honest yellowness --
Spreads like **** pictures
Peanut butter on the bread in an easy morning

My, blonde thing!
Dark eyes, the nights
Spent crying
Why did you die, why did you die---

O why did you die?

Why did you die?
Vivian Sin Oct 2015
I don't want to read,

I don't want to write.

Because If the poet's not Dead,

There's hope for their success,

and a reminder of why I won't have mine.

My husband's Famous. His Girlfriend's Fine.

He's On Wikipedia.

Maybe I'll pick up my pen and start writing mine.
Vamika Sinha Aug 2015
How strange and violet and giddy
that you are a boy
and I am a girl,
and we sit here, there,
you with Plath and I with her lover,
pretending, pretending,
pretending-
they are not the poets.

It is you, the boy,
and me, the girl,
writing to each other.
Rachel Aug 2015
one day as we
were on the couch
intertwined, like lovers
he told me that
he didn't like bukowski
because he
was
weird

I said
yeah
I understand
he's a strange
one

my eyes fell
silent
but my mind
flashed back to all
the nights I spent
with a lit cigarette
in my mouth
and Post Office
in my hand

I remembered all
the times I ran
with tears streaming down
my chest
to the books beside
my bed
and wept into
the words of the ones
like me

I thought of
all the moments
I thought I
couldn't do it
anymore
and I crawled
with bruises on my back
and bandaged
my heart
with the words of
the ones
like
me

I guess I will never
know the touch
of love
of holding hands
on the street
and a nice house
in the neighborhood
with curtains
that match
the
pillows

I was meant
for rooftops
and sinners
and poems of
heartbreak
and loathing in
Las Vegas

so I left the couch
and stumbled
home
so I could
climb into bed
and read the stories
of all the bukowskis
and the thompsons
and the plaths
and the faulkners
and all the
weird
crazy
tortured
wild
sad
violent
reckless
true
passionate
ones

the
ones
like
me
Georgia Goulding Aug 2015
The day is damp and quiet as I'd noted it usually is
at this time. My brown linen served purpose
of warming me from the wind that hushed
the house but I am leaving his mild comfort
for another.
The truth of the mirror shows my milky feathers
that I'd left on my face from sad infancy.

The kettle wails in an octave of steam and brass
and milk sloshes coolly into its capsule, fault
from my shaking hands - an impressive chip in one glass.
I watch London spin its television reruns
on the other side of the pane and challenge a stray cat
to a staring competition. Chewed ear and licked fur.

Across the lawns creeps the sure squint
of the rising sun and my tea is left unattended.
I begin to prepare
gathering towels from the cupboard, draping
them over my arm as though I am a huntsman.
The harsh material peppers my skin and I slap at it with disgust.
Like a bluebottle scuttling greedily
through the ***** hairs.
The trusted thickness works well as I cram
them against the slits in the doors.
Not even voices should seep through.
This was a play about - Plath's last day on earth told as she saw it to be. Normal in her eyes.
rebecca Aug 2015
My life is spent  treading water,
trying to keep my chin high enough
to evade the water’s cool grasp
that  traces swirl patterns
along the side of my face
and beckons me to come under.

I kick my feet harder against the feathery current.

If I tilt my head
I can see the horizon,
a faded pencil line
sealing the corners of my vision,
grey and smudged from too many attempts
at erasing it.

My legs go slack.

My entire body submerges,
succumbing to the riptide.
It throws a dart at my head
and all the thoughts burst out :
I breathe them in and blow out bubbles.
They tell me to bid adieu.

I do,
I do.
His children’s feet pitter patter
and I hear their laughter,
mellifluous ha-ha’s coming straight
from their bellies.
An adieu is too harsh,
too grating against the mouth.  
So I murmur a soft auf wiedersehen
and let the water fold me into its embrace.
*tribute to Sylvia Plath
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.
stephanie Jun 2015
"I am, I am, I am."
  her words rest on the page
she wrote this at peaks of hopefulness,
     when courage wrapped around her
neck instead of a rope.

but for me the words keep beating
     through me, endlessly, with my heartbeat
            but I am not hopeful,
       nor being held by courage.

           What am I?
I am ... alone
     I am ... empty
            I am ... missing him

how cliche of me to say.


I think of him,
    I can't help it.
his scent washing over me,
     drowning in his cologne,
choking me.

    "I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart,
                           I am,
                                     I am,
                                               I am."
Next page