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Reading Sylvia Plath as an Adult
She represents the darkest icon of my self,
The feminine side turned outward and blackened.
For what is art without control? A girlish voice
In darkling woods. The muse is turned to hate
supreme,
American girl hardened to stone, blonde Medusa
Looking at herself. A sea-god perched on her left eye.
If amber heard was literate it would be just as dangerous.
But amber doesn’t hear itself, and so turns hate outwards,
On depths always unknown by it. How can you see
Blonde rage and flee, unbroken by its magnitude?
Plath brooks no resurrections of a sun, and in life’s May
Have found another register. She never was a universe,
But, of course, she didn’t need to be. The dark icon remains,
As blonde and brash as ex-girlfriends, and twice as brilliant.
The feminine side turned outward and blackened.
For what is art without control? A girlish voice
In darkling woods. The muse is turned to hate
supreme,
American girl hardened to stone, blonde Medusa
Looking at herself. A sea-god perched on her left eye.
If amber heard was literate it would be just as dangerous.
But amber doesn’t hear itself, and so turns hate outwards,
On depths always unknown by it. How can you see
Blonde rage and flee, unbroken by its magnitude?
Plath brooks no resurrections of a sun, and in life’s May
Have found another register. She never was a universe,
But, of course, she didn’t need to be. The dark icon remains,
As blonde and brash as ex-girlfriends, and twice as brilliant.
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