SYLVIA PLATH AND THE BEE BOX
Sylvia, with bees humming,
and you were stung to distraction,
a path leading
you
to annihilation,
you stormed through life,
an Ariel singing in a crescendo.
Your path soared in the mystic sky,
lonely, abandoned to unsung heights,
you wrote, feverish, in the vortex
of you brief life.
'The Bee Meeting'
where you fought to save your identity,
and finally surrendered to the tide
that rose
and claimed you with its killing ferocity.
No erotica, no frugal delights that keep a housewife floating
on the surface and ride the tide
was ever the answer to your quest for what you were,
a seeking after an unseen shore
after the ocean
has exhausted its ravaging force
Sylvia, with bees humming,
and you were stung to distraction,
a path leading
you
to annihilation,
you stormed through life,
an Ariel singing in a crescendo.
Your path soared in the mystic sky,
lonely, abandoned to unsung heights,
you wrote, feverish, in the vortex
of you brief life.
'The Bee Meeting'
where you fought to save your identity,
and finally surrendered to the tide
that rose
and claimed you with its killing ferocity.
No erotica, no frugal delights that keep a housewife floating
on the surface and ride the tide
was ever the answer to your quest for what you were,
a seeking after an unseen shore
after the ocean
has exhausted its ravaging force
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