want the words to burn. So too the ribbon,
Like a silken extension, or like betrayal’s braid.
Words have a power—although not quite as often
As we hope—to throw the Underworld some shade.
They thought of themselves as gods, the best gods going,
But gods that could type—and would—and saw themselves
As makers of a special brand of knowing.
They’d place themselves with spirits. Who resolves
To live in rural landscapes? These two.
The keys
Today are quaint with fire. The time has passed
Where people think relationships can last.
I’m an optimist by nature, hurt by lies.
The more I use this typewriter, I will learn
Through simple practice how the world can burn.
Sylvia Plath’s Paper Dolls
If Sylvia’s paper dolls were to play with mine,
It would be crazy. Each change in an idea
Would be narrated by rule maker Sylvia.
That would be the only way to break a line.
My dolls were lovely too. I used their tabs
To hold on tight, to turn my back on terror.
(By that I mean, of course, potential error.)
I like to think that Sylvia’s mad libs
Of poems were what I, too, was trying to say.
My paper dolls are not in museums, but lost
To history, burned, or turned to dust.
I remember when Sylvia, still ordinary,
Created who she was through paper scraps.
That’s how we terrorize ourselves. Cuts. Snips.
That Sylvia Plath Feeling
So many of us wanted to be her;
So many of us wanted to be famous:
So many of us the inheritor.
What we didn’t want: to go so far.
What we didn’t want, not the same as.
So many of us wanted to be her:
But without Ted, without the madness card,
Without her daddy, blackboard showbiz,
So many of us the inheritor
Of typing up the manuscripts, the professor
Grading papers: “It is what it is.”
So many of us wanted to be her.
We thought we could be good and ruthless. Are
Good and ruthless poets in the skies?
So many of us the inheritor,
Looking for the combination to be her
And yet without depression and surprise:
So many of us wanted to be her,
So many of us the inheritor.
Greater Than or Less Than
Like us, she wanted to be good and true. Like us,
She wanted to be perfect, dedicated.
She wanted trauma too, enough to break us.
She would go all the way. Where it would take us
Was more than a boat, capsized, now empty, righted.
Like us, she wanted to be good and true. Like us,
She wanted to outdo the structure, premise.
She wanted it so much she would die for it.
She wanted trauma too. Enough to break us
Was just her getting started. Doubting Thomas,
She’d put her hand in, to understand it.
Like us, she wanted to be good and true. Like us,
She waited for the Publishers Clearing House
To declare her winnings. She knew she had won it.
She wanted trauma too. Enough to break us
Was the oven on, and breathing in the gas.
We balked, and took her sacrifice for granted.
Like us, she wanted to be good and true. Like us,
She wanted trauma too—and so broke us.
Winning
She didn’t like it when she didn’t win.
She was a realist and self-promotor.
She’d dominate each friendly competition:
Art, writing, camp; the sherry hour, new fashion.
People were taken aback. Not mediocre,
She didn’t like it when she didn’t win.
Ruthless and clear-eyed, she found the metered line
Had backing from the poets there before her.
She’d dominate each friendly competition
Because, for her, it took place with tradition
(And with the fawning of a courtier).
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