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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.

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
Away
Tyrannical
Feel
Fast
Feels
Discipline
Poetry
Turn
Small
Space
Turns

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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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I felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of race.
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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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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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