Today, remembering Sylvia Plath, on the day of her birth…October 27th 1932.
Another writer tormented by demons, Sylvia has the distinction by many as being the poet of death.
Her works were the voice of her inner torment…..a torment that ended tragically by her own hands…February 11. 1963. It was one of the coldest winters in London; perhaps that coldness of her own soul became inescapable as well.
The last thing she did was leave two mugs of milk and buttered bread for her two small children.
Milk, buttered bread and a legacy of words for all of us.
“because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
May the sweet air of heaven surround her soul ………….
“I write only because
There is a voice within me
That will not be still.”~~~~Sylvia Plath
My daughter gave me a pendant with these words…….
True words, everyone who writes feels the fire of hushed words, closed up in their physical bodies and spiritual souls…..words that suffocate and smother the bearer unless they are finally released to pen and paper.
I didn’t publish until later on in life, but I always wrote. I wrote satirical pieces and blogs before blogs were “in,” then tore them up in tiny pieces…….
I released them to the winds and the Universe, perhaps so they would not smother and suffocate inside…….
May today’s birthday be one of contentment Sylvia, filled with the peace that escaped into the winds of your troubled life, before you chose to smother its breath.