untitled poem inspired by Sylvia Plath

 The following poem is inspired by the engaging confessional poetry of Sylvia Plath. She participated in the growing spread of Surrealism as a philosophy and form of art.  Although Plath was a pioneer beyond her living time, she suffered from clinical depression. In 1956 she married the English poet Ted Hughes; they had two children together. The couple separated in 1962. In 1963, Slvia passed away from suicide by the gas oven in the Home, the children were physically unharmed but the devastation still plagued the family for decades later. As writers, I believe it’s more than important to understand and honor the eminent power of those before us, that Inspire us now. 

It is before me, the silky marbelized inking,

Moving like a stone among a waterfall; drips

Its word travels through the air, a scorched syllable

It is quiet, but still a harmony it is singing,

Liked the tongue of a stranger inside bruised lips,

So quaint it must be invisible

It is devolving now, stars that are shrinking,

Dismembering at the sight of its own reflection; fits

Its form is so potent now, inhaled volatilizable

It is behind me, but still, it is seething,

Like unstained by the earth, milky bones, honestly: it sits

So particular that way, it is non-refillable

It is motionless now, wet from the sea, still wringing

Splashing at the sight of its own depiction; resists

Its existence is so futile now, so frail it is not even fixable