It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy… — Sylvia Plath
It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation.
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More from this book
I am made, crudely, for success.
The abstract kills, the concrete saves.
Frustrated? Yes. Why? Because it is impossible for me to be God — or the universal woman-and-man — or anything much. I am what I feel and think and do. I want to express my being as fully as I can because I somewhere picked up the idea that I could justify my being alive that way.
p. 158
