Sylvia Plath

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am read more

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

What I want back is what I was
Before the bed, before the knife,
Before the brooch-pin and the salve
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What I want back is what I was
Before the bed, before the knife,
Before the brooch-pin and the salve
Fixed me in this parenthesis;
Horses fluent in the wind,
A place, a time gone out of mind.

I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.

I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.

The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm

The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm

For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.

For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.