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Literature Text
Dear Sylvia,
I pray this letter
finds you in time
to forestall the inevitable.
If only for a moment.
That before the first bite
of your last supper
and breath
you can read these words
and know. Know
before your eyelids
flutter closed
the last time
how much you will be
missed.
Did you suspect
all that time
with him –
supported on your
delicate shoulders
it was your greatness
and not his
that propelled him
to the stars?
When you suckled
his children – your children
born of his pen
or flesh
at your breast
did you weep
knowing he was
at another’s?
When the darkness
first came for you
with the moon tide
did you swim against
the pulling tendrils
with saltwater lungs?
I know someday
perhaps soon,
I too will be pulled.
I hope to learn
from your example.
You wrote me
poems
on cocktail napkins
which I kissed
and then kept
and then read
until I knew
all of the words –
your words.
I used to whisper them
as I cried
myself to sleep.
I never wrote
anything
to match them.
But I try.
I try.
Dearest Sylvia,
you will be
missed by me –
and others
who love you
when you decide to go.
These words
are not enough
to sway you I realize.
They come perhaps
a generation too late.
They echo too faintly
across the miles
and years.
Just know
that sometimes
Our poems have no words.
Sometimes, we are poetry.
All my love,
I pray this letter
finds you in time
to forestall the inevitable.
If only for a moment.
That before the first bite
of your last supper
and breath
you can read these words
and know. Know
before your eyelids
flutter closed
the last time
how much you will be
missed.
Did you suspect
all that time
with him –
supported on your
delicate shoulders
it was your greatness
and not his
that propelled him
to the stars?
When you suckled
his children – your children
born of his pen
or flesh
at your breast
did you weep
knowing he was
at another’s?
When the darkness
first came for you
with the moon tide
did you swim against
the pulling tendrils
with saltwater lungs?
I know someday
perhaps soon,
I too will be pulled.
I hope to learn
from your example.
You wrote me
poems
on cocktail napkins
which I kissed
and then kept
and then read
until I knew
all of the words –
your words.
I used to whisper them
as I cried
myself to sleep.
I never wrote
anything
to match them.
But I try.
I try.
Dearest Sylvia,
you will be
missed by me –
and others
who love you
when you decide to go.
These words
are not enough
to sway you I realize.
They come perhaps
a generation too late.
They echo too faintly
across the miles
and years.
Just know
that sometimes
Our poems have no words.
Sometimes, we are poetry.
All my love,
Literature
Halation
Wait until tomorrow comes,
when moonbeams dance on silvered tiptoes
and stars live in the black spaces between your ribs
pushmumbling beneath your skin.
So that your secrets hidden in little known places,
will be lit by the moon boats casting anchor in the color of your eyes
and the glow of firefly comets drifting about your heart.
[or maybe a soul]
Literature
I'm No Sylvia Plath
Her heart's made of steel
Mine's made of plaster
With so much pressure
I'm deteriorating faster
It's ending now
It's ending badly
I'm crying for help
I'm screaming madly
But no one listens
To my calls
No one stops
Or cares at all
I'm on the floor
Broken bits of plaster
I'm certain I'm dying
I just wish it were faster
Literature
Ode to Sylvia Plath
the smell of the kitchen floor.
six days ago you left a note,
and promised the world you would die.
your eyes are destiny,
i can see the patterns aligning
in the stars. there is
consecration in the grief.
coins flashing last-day sighs,
your lips pink and pink
against chalky exhaustion.
your mind was truth.
you left textures in the darkness
and the candle flames. linoleum and dried milk
and gasoline. beautiful, you thought.
Suggested Collections
T. Scott Fisher (I couldn't sign above because it would look stupid.)
This letter is not to Sylvia Plath. This letter is to anyone who gives selflessly to make others better without ever a thought to themselves. Anyone who fights to keep their head above water while helping others climb to safety. Anyone who needs to hear that they are just as special and worthy as those they support. If this letter is to you, you know it.
-tsf
This letter is not to Sylvia Plath. This letter is to anyone who gives selflessly to make others better without ever a thought to themselves. Anyone who fights to keep their head above water while helping others climb to safety. Anyone who needs to hear that they are just as special and worthy as those they support. If this letter is to you, you know it.
-tsf
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