Sylvia Plath

Sylvia, you the darling daughter of your daddy, So much attached to and affectionate, Lovely and emotionally alive, Nervous and sentimental, Ted Hughes, you could not feel it. But the talent seemed to be beaming with And breaking forth, Dispelling all that was dark in consciousness Or underneath And you longed to express your self, I mean the ailing self in poetry. The heart and mind of a woman, The troubles, tribulations and tensions Of the motherly self, The fissures and fissions taking place In human relations, Man-woman relationship. With the cracks figuring in, The personality lying spit open, The throbbing heart Taking it otherwise, Full of aches and beats, You could not resist it yourself. Sylvia, in all that, saw you life pulsating, Throbbing beautifully, From the hospital, In your ailment And the flowers sprouting, Sparkling and cackling, The things made of light. Sylvia, before ending yourself, unable to grapple with The tensions, troubles and tribulations within, You thought of doing with irrationally, Taking to the confession of the self As for a discharge from pressure, Living isolated from to finish yourself, Unable to cope up with the split and the crisis, The love for the daddy and on the other the treatment of Hughes.