Friday, July 29, 2005

Found inside the pages of Sylvia Plath's Collected Poems

I have been slowly working my way through the fifty or so second-hand books I bought at the local Bookfest in May. Today I got to Sylvia Plath's Collected Poems, & found this. Two hands, one – the top – a scrawl & wandering, the other tight & focused.

                    lady that I love.           moi  ??

Where do I start to tell the story
Of the lady that I love.
How do to I start to tell of the glory
Now I've learn to love
It an't easy, I'm not sorry
Now that I can love.

It's not ???, I
I turned away and turned back
Our I learn to love
She stayed with me along our 9 month track there to guide me
As I learnt to love. And watch me learn to love.
Giving ?????No illusions now its my turn
Your the lady that I love.

SoftOur hearts joining, softly yearning
together we can love.
lift it high, laugh don't cry
Our greatest gift of love.
To the lady that I love.

                         I love you Michele.
                              x x x

It's a fucking illusion, eh. Love??It's not pure, Suzanne. Love is relative – relative to our home, our job, how much money we've got in the bank. How can I love you in this environment? I'm so intense, so uptight, so trapped that love is no solace. Am I wrong in being so caught up with what's happening around us? I guess I should be consumed by love alone, as a true romantic would have me believe. But I can't help but be me – and I don't know what love means, at the moment. I can't separate it from the world hassles that surround me. Everything is one blurred mess – love, hate, job, flat, money, one blurred mess. I want to be able to recognise love again, out of that jumble of unhappiness. I want to love you again.

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