OK, we’re going to have to agree to play nice and share here. I mean she might have been born in the US, but she lived in the UK. With Ted Hughes for goodness sake. And she died here.
Anyway. Enough about her, let’s talk about me. Plath forms part of the reunification between me and poetry; the army who convinced me to give it another try. I’d seen the odd poem here and there that I connected with, but reading a book of her selected poems was the first time I felt a connection with a poet. I flickered through the book, my jaw dropping lower with each poem. I’ve since discovered that my favourites are her poems about motherhood – Morning Song and You’re, which contains the best line ever in poetry. But this one. This one was the hooker:
Face Lift by Sylvia Plath
You bring me good news from the clinic,
Whipping off your silk scarf, exhibiting the tight white
Mummy-cloths, smiling: I’m all right.
When I was nine, a lime-green anesthetist
Fed me banana-gas through a frog mask. The nauseous vault
Boomed with bad dreams and the Jovian voices of surgeons.
Then mother swam up, holding a tin basin.
O I was sick.