52 Years Since We Lost Sylvia

in memory of sylvia plath.


someone said

that poets are like stars,

who burn and burn, years after death,

eternally holding back breath.


in the lone emptiness of space,

with your red, red eye,

what could you be looking at?

or are you watching us from on high,

mean-mugged, with a black baseball bat?


God in the sky, a pocketful of ash;

I think she tasted like Sylvia Plath,

I think she tasted like fire and rain,

to die and resurrect again.


the doctors resurrect the sad, sad girls

to play upon the playground in the dust

to tie their hair with ribbons in their curls,

to watch the roses rust,

to trim the buds.


caught in-between,

ever caught in the act;

her head in the oven,

photo taken from the back,

babbling of Nazis, of blissful oblivion

I think I could revive you,

I could make you live again.


but my red hair was never on fire,

and my pretty round legs, never slashed

nor by some mad wolf desire,

did I ever eat the men from my past;

cannibal, hannibal, ravenous and sleezy,

we could be beautiful still,

or vanish forever, peaceful and easy,

a stain on a bright windowsill.

2 thoughts on “52 Years Since We Lost Sylvia

  1. I see that you haven’t posted to this blog for nearly a year, but I’m writing this anyway in the hope that you read your comments.

    I’m a fellow poet. I also never show my poetry to anybody, so I realize that posting this probably takes quite the amount of bravery. And because you say that you’ve been a poet since high school, but there are only a few poems on this blog, I’m assuming you only post your very best ones.

    I’m just writing this to say that this poem is better than much of the crap I read in poetry contests, poetry magazines, etc, etc. It’s a good poem, is what I’m saying. ‘holding back breath’ ‘stain on a windowsill’ were nice images. Criticism is useless, depending on praise is useless, but I hope you keep on writing.

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