On Reading Sylvia Plath

She writes in untidy riddles, this woman,

Schizophrenic mysteries

Too complicated for a simple mind

Barely able to navigate the twists and turns of detached narrative

The double innuendo;

Digging for deeper meaning like a mole in its burrow

Peeling more layers of meaning than the proverbial onion skins

Descriptions that express nothing,

Mockingly hinting at having overlooked something

If she wrote today

Her medium should be Facebook

And she the queen of fragments and things left unsaid

I am simple. I write simply.

I cannot fathom the depths of her arctic currents

And every time I take a dip

I end up drifting on Poetry Creek

Without a dictionary

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