What you packed roughly
into those years of
weal and woe
that still make me
read your life
and its dynamism,
fatality and strife.
I am seeking Sylvia Plath,
in all the fragments of
yourself that you left behind.
For you showed me
your primeval fears
and the haunting manic doom
of the black cloud
that too often descended
on you cold.
Yet in the midst of
the irresistible doom
your genius rose wild
and shone a fog light
of truth through the
fate you thought
was you.
I am seeking Sylvia Plath,
in all that has been said
and not said in the
years since you gave
away your life
as a gift to
those who seek.
And some may say
that you were too absorbed
by death’s final door
and consumed by its presence
in your fragile life.
But I say you were taken
not by death at all
but by life,
by all that existence
flung at you
and hurled into
your path and into
your turbulent head.
I am seeking Sylvia Plath,
as the women who gave
herself whole in words,
who gave herself in fragments,
in a mysterious sharing
of the shades of blue.
15/11/2016