I really appreciated this article by Christina Patterson (click on the title to see the article). I feel deeply sad for Frieda Plath--who so looks and sounds like Sylvia Plath that one can't help but wonder what a beautiful, striking woman Plath must have been, as these qualities incarnated in her daughter also.
I have found both amusing and saddening some remarks in the media about poetry, usually from commenters on news articles about Hughes' death. It's basically the old "who cares about poetry anymore?" question--one which has been around for a very long time, far before modern poetry. It's just sad to see such large amounts of ignorance around about the worth of poetry and the "tortured poet" phenomenon. True, as a poet, I have to say that poetry can lead to places in the psyche that are terrible, mysterious, unnameable, shadowed, ecstatic--that is, to me, why poetry is an emotional and spiritual crucible, not just playing around with words. I don't find it an accident that Ted Hughes (Plath's husband) was drawn to the Tibetan Book of the Dead--writing poetry can be like dipping into the bardo, if one has the courage and the patience. I never have ceased to admire the way Plath and Hughes diligently set their lives up to accomodate and nurture their writing.
I wanted to share my favorite poem by Ted Hughes (he is actually one of my favorite poets, right up there with Plath). Hughes had many years to reflect on his marriage, and I think this poem, from The Birthday Letters, says it all:
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