She dealt her pretty words like Blades—— Emily Dickinson (via paperflowers)
How glittering they shone—
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone—
She never deemed—she hurt—
That—is not Steel’s Affair—
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh—
How ill the Creatures bear—
To Ache is human—not polite—
The Film upon the eye
Mortality’s old Custom—
Just locking up—to Die.
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh … . And eyes big love-crumbs,and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new
-e.e. cummings
“shocking fuzz of your electric furr,” “eyes big love-crumbs”… e.e. cummings, i love you
One theory of poltergeists — a theory that Plath surely would’ve liked — has it that some teenage girls are overflowing with so much repressed fury and unexpressed sexual energy that they cause supernatural phenomena — chairs flying across the room, strange spontaneous bleeding. Plath, like the fili, was a hardcore, full-body poet. She was kabbalistic, a golem-maker, and she created any number of monsters that still haunt readers. Her work exposes all of the worst humiliations of growing up female. It’s only natural, when she opened that basement door a crack, that her extensive biographies should reveal page after page of new embarrassments — her confessions of sexual frustration, her sugar-coated letters to her mother, her lost, private battles, her trying too hard and caring too much, her insatiable pride, her obvious desperation.
(via bookslut)