The Bell Jar And The Bible

Psalms says I shall
not be moved—she says
I cry by day and by
night with
no
answer
Psalms and Sylvia
both demanding of fiery
furnaces—
importuning heat in
exchange for adversity.
I'm too young at 25 and
much too young at 85.
I'll never be ready, so
what does fear stand for?
Surely not a path of
righteousness, Psalms—
you ugly woman shielding
your nose
mouth
ankles
with god's darkened darkness—
It's because of her still-moved
waters and her Regret Ankles
so afraid [unafraid]
of a fiery plath-furnace.



I have always had an obsessive personality. I tend to dwell on something that I love for extended periods of time, but I must say that this obsession with Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes is conquering the mind at this point. I find myself not wanting to do anything, see anything, write anything, unless it has to do with the two of them. Instead of living, I'm reading (to me, sometimes interchangeable).

I know this obsession will slowly die down as did Whitman, as did James Thurber, as did Lisa Frank in the fucking second grade, but there's something more to this obsession.

There's something about this woman, this man.

Lady Lazarus attempted suicide every ten years. Her plan—to live as a cat and overcome suicide nine times, nine sets of ten years. She wished for darkness, silence, stillness, and she failed this video-game perception of human life at age 30. Three attempts, one failure (or revolt through her eyes). Ted's new wife killed herself along with her child. And Sylvia's child killed himself later in life. This leaves Ted, gaping, revealing life through a series of "Birthday Letters" and dying only three weeks later.

Don't get me wrong, Ted's a bitch. He cheated, lied, and did not "help" Sylvia's state, but that son-of-a-bitch, that asswipe of a husband—could write a poem.