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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.

Sylvia Plath

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Sylvia Plath
Age: 30 †
Born: 1932
Born: October 27
Died: 1963
Died: February 11
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Victoria Lucas
Sylvia Plath Hughes
Heaven
Lethal
Long
Flies
Increases
Remind
Shot
Shots
Radio
Increase
Radios

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I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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But everybody has exactly the same smiling frightened face, with the look that says: I'm important. If you only get to know me, you will see how important I am. Look into my eyes. Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.
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Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.
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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
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The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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Ironically, Henry James' biography comforts me & I long to make known to him his posthumous reputation he wrote, in pain, gave all his life (which is more than I could think of doing I have Ted, will have children but few friends) & the critics insulted & mocked him, readers didn't read him.
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I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord.
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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