One day I was born. And then
I was born again. Deaths I had a lot.
Daddy never gave me his attention,
I called and called, acted like a bee.
But instead of beeing he wanted to be,
And I was. And he is gone
forever.
Will he ever be
Back?
One day I was born again in England
I buzzed his poems and he gave me birth,
Honey, shelter in his arms.
He bor(n)e me.
His palms one day gave me death.
But it was pretty,
sometimes.
I rode my bike to meet him,
He boated me around for pleasure.
We both recited poems, once and again.
Laughing, confidently. He
Looked at me. He cared for me. He
Once
Listened to me. He did, yes, one day
(I thought)
He did.
But when is it that the man leaves the poet?
When is it that his work- his words-
Over spoke me and I left them aside?
My words became cakes, my life
Was his life, his words won prizes.
My words were eaten. Domesticity was my poetry,
Social life his muse. Many muses.
Two too many.
His mind wanted my mind but I could not
Help it anymore. I traded writing for baking,
And he never liked that. Never.
Baking was my first approach to the oven.
But not the last.
I was metaphorphosed but a butterfly didn’t come out.
The perfect wife overthrown the poet and
My hands were used for insecurities instead of writing.
I could not touch the air anymore. I
Baked my mind out when he was out. Out OUt OUT!!!
Suspiciousness became my only thought. I wanted
To keep him because listening to him
Speak is like hearing the voice of God. I wanted to believe
While I am sitting waiting, waiting, wanting………………..waiting.
My name is Sylvia Plath Hughes.
I don’t see his face anymore but his back. His constant
Flirting set me aside and I am not flirting
With poetry anymore. Why
Do you insist on humiliating me? You are
All that matters. You are
The real poet of the house. Look at me
Looking at you, looking at me.
Forcing the I to see.
Through the glass I see what is not. No mirrors.
I am tired; I am so tired of it.
Alone I am again. Before was him
And I was alone. Before in the crowd but now
I
Am alone alone, all one. All gone.
I break his papers wetted by my tears,
Tears made of words stacked in me. They
Needed to explode out. I needed them out.
Tear the outcry. The fire will dry them.
Anger, sex, fire, air.
The truth comes to me, the truth loves me.
Fury brings writing and I write and write.
Am I write (?) From the mind to the body, the pain
Comes out. Now he is gone. I am free.
But you came that night while
I was writing and I stopped. You absorb me.
You are my antimuse.
Are you still fucking her? And again through
The window I look. Desperately lonely, alone.
I am starting to smoke.
I am trying to start new things.
I am thinking of taking a lover.
“I know how you feel” they say. They don’t.
They don’t know at all. My hands
Are still mine but sometimes I feel like I am not solid.
I cry solidly, ethereally, barefooted to feel that
I am still touching the ground. Still
Touching
The ground.
I am not ill. I am not
Ill. It’s all my foul.
That woman, I invented her.
I walk like the Death walks,
In the middle of a vast land of silenced words.
My hands are my hardwood. I am a tree.
I gave myself to you again. As weak as a tear.
My head will never rest again. My words won’t be heard.
Your shoulders are drowned out.
This hunger is only satisfied by pills.
The ceiling looks threatening and I am
Climbing
d
o
w
n.
Bread and milk as a farewell. And an open window,
And a sealed door. I love you. I am gone.
NO exit.
I became one with the light vapored in the air.
I am nature.
I have been the 3 stages. Liquid.
Solid. Gas.
Tears. Flesh. Words of death.
I am still water.
