I want to scream. To cry
To kick out against the rage
before it eats me whole.
Drowned in the bile of my own self-loathing
I burn and melt away
into puddles of foam
Smothered in something silent, a sadness
Lungs cannot breathe
Blood cannot course
All fades away to a blinding light,
piercing heart with jagged lances,
leaving nothing but bare ash and powdered bone
–a terrible memory of me
for new sunrises
intimately knowing how
to guide one’s heart true
Singing lightly of sorrow –
Gaze always ahead
I first read Sylvia Plath my junior or senior year of high school. I bought the Bell Jar at a second-hand book shop and was transformed. I do not know what happened to me. I do not remember everything that happened in the book. But I know that I felt something when I read it and that forever changed me.
I felt connected to the world around me, and it was terrifying.
Here was a voice that I could latch on to. Here was a story of a woman so lost that the could only try to fly in order to find herself again. I could take flight with her and in the end I understood that I was not like the others around me. That life was going to be a fight.
In memory of Sylvia Plath, who died this day fifty-one years ago at the age of 30.
Billowing dust lingers like a magic carpet
with each bounding step across
a ground made of white cheese:
parmesean beneath a rising body
floating through the absence of gravity.
lacking a center
head over heel over head over heel
around a crater gaping wide,
a mouth that cannot swallow
that what won’t fall in.
There’s little gravity on the moon.
No amount of seriousness will
create a weight upon my shoulders.
The burdens of that speck (so far away)
drift off, lost among the tiny dots
that may or may not exist anymore.
Nothing can hold me down
(except – of course – myself)
(c) Lindsey Smith
A 12-year-old’s response to 9/11.
Comment from Mike, borrowed from YouTube with good intentions: “That is actually very much what the point of this poem is. Or, rather, the point of the poem is that the war has only furthered the atrocities of 9/11 — not corrected them or made things “even.” When I wrote this poem I knew that my experience could not be compared to those of children living in Iraq, Afghanistan or any other war torn country, but I do know that fear is a universal thing. And that’s what I wrote about.”