Sylvia Plath

[Anonymous]

Awesome poet I would heartily reccomend her poetry to anyone, and was just wondering if anyone else here has read it, and if so what their views on it were?

[Anonymous]

You must be seriously deranged to like her poetry. She is a complete syko! (no pun intended). She is a complete nutcase with a man-problem. No offense to her, nor insulting her just because she can't argue back, but she really just tries to depress everyone.

[Anonymous]

Maybe negativity is the only way to become more  positive. Who Knows? But unfortunately Ere, I havent't. I like the poetry of Maya Angelou though. Still I Rise is pure encoragement.

[Anonymous]

Mmmm, deranged....

/gurgle

Edit: decided to post one of her poems up here, it's name is Wuthering Heights. Enjoy.

The horizons ring me like faggots,
Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin evaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color.
But they only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as I step forward.

There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.

The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds,
Gray as the weather.
The black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space,
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig curls and yellow teeth
And hard, marbly baas.

I come to wheel ruts, and water
Limpid as the solitudes
That flee through my fingers.
Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
Of people and the air only
Remembers a few odd syllables.
It rehearses them moaningly:
Black stone, black stone.

The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among all horizontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company;
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in valleys narrow
And black as purses, the house lights
Gleam like small change.

Sylvia Plath

[Anonymous]

Why?

[Anonymous]

Why what?

[Anonymous]

Why the hell could ANYONE LIKE THAT STUFF!

[Anonymous]

sylvia saint, great pornstar

if i spell her name wrong, forgive me

[Anonymous]

Ajax, you have no taste :p

[Anonymous]

Erebus, I have just experienced no less than 3 presentations on Sylvia Plath in my English lesson, and I tell you, She is not a poet, she is a person who has published too many suicide notes that people have mistaken them for Poetry.

[Anonymous]

I'm not going to get into ANOTHER argument, but Ajax, you are an uncultured swine, and I fart in your general direction.

[Anonymous]

You farther was a 'amster and you mother smelled of elderberries!