For Sylvia Plath

[billy]

that you have been claimed by the transient young,
the little girls passing into womanhood,
the pretend suicides running razors down their skin,
lightly enough to maintain the surface
but still worry their poor mothers,
that every teenager with daddy issues,
every sprog sent to their room, sprog feels out of place, she americaian and it's a colloquial english word.
now discusses your work without ever saying much,
cite your last poems as if they were all
you ever wrote in your short life,
as if your suicide were all that mattered,
that Goth girls and cutters are now your main crowd,
will perhaps always taint your reputation,
your academic readership.

now feminism has been forced onto you, is now needed
your corpse re-dressed by radicals,
as though to be a wife was your single purpose,
a deranged Ophelia, unwilling symbol,
maybe you'll never be thought an artist
in the circles you so sought to join.

slapped with the label of hysteria,
effeminate bleatings unmanly to applaud,
your streamlined verse, your wickedness,
your cruel insight and strange metaphors,
your subtle descent into unexplored caves,
incest, abuse, hatred and love,
the latter the most repulsive and feared,
might never be taken seriously.

I still learn from your scribblings though,
even if that lesson is simply to hope,
to perforate the wound then move on,
like you always tried, like you never could.

way to much to like. i'd mark most of lines if i showed which ones. apart from two minor nits i think is excellent. it captures her and the would be plath-ites who know little of her poetry. (as i, if i'm honest, though i'm not a plath-ite) an excellent write for me and that all you'll get.

oh! this is one of the few poems with an extremely long run on line that actually works. thanks for the read jack.