Stillborn: Plath

I have always heard great things about Plath. I've also heard pretty tragic things about her. Ironically, though I've heard so much I have never read any of her work. This was a striking poem to read by her.  Her metaphor throughout this piece is so poignant. It speaks to anyone whom, in the creative sphere, feels both loss and unconditional love for that which never seems to bloom. Here repetition of the word "smile" seems almost impatient with itself. It is almost painful. She then ends the thought tragically as she states "and still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start." There is a sense of desperation in that that is beautifully worded and almost untouchable. All she seems to want is for her poems to live. She births them but they seem, at least to her, to fall short of living. It was surprising to see someone express themselves that deeply about work that seems to never see the light of day. We have all been through that that is so relatable! It is genius. She is genius. I loved the poem, really.