So, if you couldn’t tell from those two (very non-lyric) pieces, i spent my weekend intermittently curled up with my collection of Sylvia Plath poems. Lately just about anything i’ve read has impacted upon my writing pretty clearly, and Plath’s ability to gently turn the obscure into the common as well as the other way around is something that makes her my favourite non-lyrical poet by far.

Of course, i didn’t spend the entire 60 hours that i classify as ‘weekend’ curled up with a book and some bottled emotions; my sitting on the floor of the fourth row of the strange auditorium at Shippensburg with a notepad on my lap furiously copying down Plath poems while the fraternity people chirped away endlessly was probably the last thing i intended to talk about upon my return. In fact, i had written a pen-and-paper blog just minutes before then, but reading it now it doesn’t seem to be saying anything at all.


It would be one thing if i were to write you my Bell Jar, but i haven’t read that in nearly a year. Instead you are stuck with poetry, dancing around the things i wasn’t planning to say anyhow. I’m obtuse like that, i suppose.