Meta Sylvia

[RiverNotch]

Stroke by stroke she rows into darkness Occasionally, "she" feels more like a blockade -- the theme I'm getting here is Plath being meta on Plath, Plath speaking through you, instead of you being meta on Plath, you adopting her voice and imagery. And imagery almost certainly is adopted, as something here rings familiar, when opposed to Ariel -- but voice? The piece overall feels too clear, too continuous -- none of that icy, jittery energy I normally get. Although perhaps that's the point?
towards an island unmarked on maps. Preferring the sound of "toward" -- emphasizes s.

Words distract her with incense and light
or clay and blood. Space fills with language "or" feels like the writer is unsure, instead of the speaker -- and though "space fills with language" sounds almost-proverbial, I'm still missing an "a", as certainly the speaker transforms this language into something that is spoken?
no one speaks, vacuum, furnace, not only these; Feels like the semicolon shouldn't be there --- more "no one speaks --- vacuum, furnace", "not only these" doesn't feel like the right thought,
white noise like sheets over mirrors. especially since this runs so alien. A vacuum is pure emptiness, a furnace pure fire --- this middle ground doesn't feel like a middle ground at all, especially with "like sheets over mirrors" distracting the purity of the central thought. Perhaps

"no one speaks: vacuum, furnace,
no, not these --- white noise."

Although perhaps I just didn't get it.

In the mirror an inverse stanza, outlined
in obscurity; a scribble, a drizzle of soot – Since you detail, colon instead of semicolon?
not frozen in space but flame-nailed
onto the white sheet page. I do like this stanza. This is where the poem lifts for me, where it starts to really reach Plath ---- although that first stanza does an especially good job of setting this up, if not in voice then in image. Again, it felt familiar, opposed to Ariel --- immediately, the image appeared in my mind, a lone boat crossing a moonlit lake....

She schemes to carry this precious chaos
to the island in a suitable chalice. Stanza Although the adjectives here bog. "Precious chaos"? Adolescent. "Suitable chalice"? Functional. "Stanza"? Well, that's not carried by an adjective ---- and the piece lifts again.
carves the carriage, the cup, chaos, "the chaos", why not? Although really, I don't support the idea of the "chaos", not because it's a bad thought, it feels so delicately tarotic, but because it's such a gothic, really adolescent, word, in this piece's context.
the mirror, and the island. And certainly, the images selected here could be more novel -- it's almost repetitive.

Big game roams here. She tracks the greatest, Once again, the poem reaches heights, although not those same heights as before -- now, instead of Plath, it is the writer who speaks. And I do love the writer.
captures him, writes his wrongs - steals him, I keep thinking Ted Hughes. I'm sure that's only another dimension -- Plath was not so tied to him, just as he should not be so tied to her.
all his desires. Exhilaration drips from her pen
like spring water. I feel like this line could be fused with the next -- the sudden drop in cadence is a distraction, for me.

She’s captured him alive, tethered him Well, it's not really capturing if the captive's dead?
between parallel lines; now she milks him Although tethering him between parallel lines -- a delicious blend of literature, Euclid, and Blondie's best, such that it feels universal, a blending between writer and [original] speaker. With "milks", it seems the speaker returns to pure Plath, and something starts to smell again...
in the desert, bleeds him carefully, ...I mean, "bleeds" feels right, sure, but it also feels tired, in the context of the poem --- like Plath's seeming overuse of Carbon Monoxide, wit not intended...
cautiously, until he’s ...and again, the break in the cadence feels awkward, irregular. I'd rather move condensed up to this line.
condensed.

Ultimately, something like

"Big game roams here. She tracks the greatest,
captures him, writes his wrongs --- steals him,
all his desires. Exhilaration

drips from her pen, tethers him
between parallel lines; now she milks him
in the desert, bleeds him carefully,..."

Then she launches her flesh canoe
towards the island Now the lone "s" here feels right.
all over again. And we're truly back, the voice once again reaching the true objectiveness of the first stanza (as the first stanza only set stages, not showed voices) --- although this stanza feels purer, more Plath-like. Perhaps that is the point: not a continuous imitation, but a fusion of the two voices, ultimately to explore the roles of both, Plath as an artist in motion (long-stopped), the speaker as the artist in motion (still-going). 

A fine piece.