My Favorite Poetry

Poetry is creative writing at its finest. Some people might say that Robert Frost was the best creative writer, others might say that Maya Angelou was, still others could believe that John Lennon will always be one of the greatest writers. Everyone enjoys different ways of creative thinking. I personally admire the work of Sylvia Plath and Emily Dickenson.

I know the bottom she says. I know it with my great taproot;

It is what you fear.

I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me,

Its dissatisfactions?

Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?

Love is a shadow.

How you lie and cry after it,

Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,

Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,

Echoing, Echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?

This is rain now, this big hush.

And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.

Scorched to the root.

My red filament burn and stand, a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.

A wind of such violence

Will tolerate no by standing: I must shriek.

The moon, also is merciless: she would drag me

Cruelly, being barren.

Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go

Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.

How your bad dreams possess and endow me

.

I am inhabited by a cry.

Nightly it flaps out

Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing

That sleeps in me;

All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse,

Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?

Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge.

What is this, this face

So murderous in its strangle of branches?

Its snaky acids kiss.

It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faul

That kill, that kill, that kill.

• Born in Boston, Massachusetts October 27th, 1932 and died February 11th, 1963
• Studied at Smith College, Newnham College, and University of Cambridge
• Became a great novelist, poet and short story writer.
• 1941 she published her first poem in the Boston Herald. She was only nine.
• Married Ted Hughes on June 16th, 1956
• First collection of poems entitled "Colosses" published in 1960 followed by "Ariel" in 1962 and "The Bell Jar" in 1963
• Associated with the activist movement
• Received a Pulitzer Prize posthumously as Hughes published her works later

• Born in Amherst, Massachusetts December 10th, 1830 and died May 15th, 1886 from Bights disease (caused by kidney degeneration).
• Only around seven of her poems were published while she was alive. Later, her poems were recovered - in total of 1800 poems.
• Considered a recluse.
• She seemed to have a fascination with death which are attributed to close friends and family members dying at a young age, or maybe because the house overlooked a graveyard where she often saw people buried.
• Although it is hard to say for sure, some say that she didn't believe in God despite her puritan-like upbringing and that she considered herself a pagan for a short time.

 A wounded deer leaps highest

I've heard the hunter tell;

"tis but the ecstasy of death,

And the the brake is still.

The smitten rock that gushes,

The trampled steel that springs:

A cheek is always redder

Just where the hecti stings!

Mirth is the mail of anguish,

In wich it cautious arm,

Lest anybody spy the bloode

And "You're hurt" exclaim!