Better that every fiber crackand fury make head,
blood drenching vivid
couch, carpet, floor
and the snake-figured almanac
vouching you are
a million green counties from here,
than to sit mute, twitching so
under prickling stars,
with stare, with curse
blackening the time
goodbyes were said, trains let go,
and I, great magnanimous fool, thus wrenched from
my one kingdom.
As I lay awake reading Plath at 2 in the morning yesterday, I told myself that she is not a poet I should touch after dinner. She completely divests me of sleep, takes away my stability. Each of her poem mocks my existence--forcing and compelling me to see the parallels, acknowledge the similarities, and turns me into an insomniac. I have this nameless urge to tell someone what she does to me.
Instead, I tell you, a blank space in this impersonal medium what is happening to me. You keep a record of me, my self, my thoughts-. When I come to you, I become a recorder of facts, twice removed from the person I am writing about. You help me to be detached--at least, for sometime.
But you can't make me forget that I have been a "great magnanimous fool" and am now wrenched from my one kingdom...
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