IMG_7547 by you.

I imagine myself with a great public,
Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos.
Instead, the dead injure me with attentions, and nothing
                 can happen.
The moon lays a hand on my forehead,
Blank-faced and mum as a nurse.

-From Small Hours, Sylvia Plath

Small Hours is one of Sylvia Plath’s transitional poems. Her imagery is typically her, her diction, her voice. Her personality, her essence really start to emerge in these poems, and the darkness and nuance that mark her poetry so distinctly show definite progress. It’s truly compelling. Also, you can sense she’s leaving one place – emotionally, psychologically – and heading to another. It’s hard to turn our heads away from this other place.

A little discussion.

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