I RECITED THIS POEM my freshman year of high school for an English class. I’m not certain why I chose Sylvia Plath. She is dark, somewhat cross, and she took her own life at a fairly young age. I have nothing in common with this woman, but am interested in her writing style, the structure of her poems, and their imagery. As angry as she was, she was truly wonderful at what she did.
I really never forgot about this poem, for some reason. It weirds me out, but I think it is so deeply ingrained in my memory because I rented a cassette tape from the pubic library to help memorize it, and listened to her recite the poem over and over. I can recall the exact articulations in each word, how the lines flowed and led into one another — and still recite it just so. Viewing this gives me chills!
I suppose the reason I bring it up again is, I was contemplating reciting it for an assignment in my writing class. Then I read it again, and decided it’s best left in my freshman English class at Bishop Ryan — and simply too vexed. People would think I was an angry little woman.
Sorry, Sylvia.
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