The Beekeeper’s Daughter’s Suicide

The glory of wisdom and ego shrunk to accommodate the villagers
Wounding spirits.

She the significant one. She is my angelic conjured up myth
She who always tells me in her poetry to rise, rise again above volcano dreamers.

Liquid deep are the secrets of my heart. The stem of intimacy grows silently.
Give me enough rope and surely I will hang myself.

The handmaiden’s pulse is there. The muscle is there like unfinished things from childhood.
It pushes at the difficult thoughts I have.

They have a hard appearance from the outside like a seduction theory,
The blue steel of the sky, the land that borders on God, perplexity, sanctuary.

Like poverty and death, the angelic dream of it. I am as serious as an ill tiger,
I laugh like a hyena in the face of the man on the moon. I am a coping lioness.

My mother did not keep me from children who were rough.
She wanted me to experience the world (that humanity is a violent species).

My mother left me there hanging on for dear life. As a child the details of my life
Soon became embroidered by tortuous emptiness, the innoncence of autumn cast out.

Bold smile through her great depression. Wife interrupted. Mother of Frieda and Nicholas Hughes. There was always a journey of moving forward worshipping the past.

Where is the sun in an argument? Where is the physical body in flight in dream-mode?
She saw the skylines of New York, had a London experience, married an Englishman, a poet.

Solitude and loneliness, being an introvert should have been included in the commandments.
Her bright faith and loyalty, the love she had for her children was like music from the heart.

Her bright faith was as bright as the lights in Los Angeles. Her loyalty was a prize.
The glory of her bravery was unbalanced, and her rage was that most rare thing.

Sylvia Plath, daughter and poet, wife and mother, gone too soon to heaven.
Melancholia and of the sky in her eyes and the other half of her gone to hell on earth.

Bird, leaf, madness, jealousy all symbols of life, of humanity and so we come to adulthood.
Now her poetry educates young people’s minds now that she is no longer flesh, bone.

I think a present-day Sylvia would be reluctant to be called beautiful,
Lonely, misguided, depressive, and intelligent. A Sylvia who lived a madness life,

Who fell ill at the end of her life, is a Sylvia whose heroism lives on
In her poetry, her soul’s progress, the people who relate to it destination anywhere.

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