Today, February 11, marks the death-date of the brilliant poet, Sylvia Plath. A tribute piece, from my collection Arclight. To be a mother, and to double as a dark sorceress, a cleaver of dried bones, could not have been easy. … Continue reading
In the resident smolder of lips, a seared prelude, announcing blatant recourse to the sheerest intent.
To be a mother, and to double as a dark sorceress, a cleaver of dried bones, could not have been easy. Especially in the 1950s. They burned witches then, as well as reds and blacks and faggots, and other things … Continue reading
Perhaps, Miss Sylvia, if there had been more sand on your beach, more sea to wash away the dead skin of pallid thoughts, more moonstruck nights rattling close to your fingers as you typed out the country of your heart, … Continue reading
Listen to the spoken word track w/ music here. Don’t call it a Comeback— L.L. Cool J. wooing Sylvia Plath in broad daylight where they dance and get crazy theatrical doing the Lazarus (and doing it and doing it well) Sylvia … Continue reading
Budding sorceress, basking in a siege of text– long shadows at dusk.
One of those days, sun bathing in elliptical gold– No clouds to obscure.
Vigilant tracking, she stalks life in wary frets– Caution testing fire.
Between passages, the molten birth of Lyric– In labor, she chastens.
Gauging twilight’s depths, the poet draws blinds to dream– Hope, worn to silence.
