Sylvia Plath is one of my favorites American poet. When today I read her featured interview, I want to write something like her, something like “angry” poem. I do not prefer to go out of the prompt. So, I write for the prompt–the Bop inspired by Plath. Let me know what you think of this attempt of mine. Will eagerly wait for all of yours comments.
An issue arose as I woke up that morning–an April morning–few days ‘fore my
birthday. The issue I would not be able to define. It was somewhere between anger
and disturbed, between cursing and writhing. It was like someone had chained me
to the hook–by the neck, by the ankles, and by the wrists; I wanted to scream, but,
I could not because of the others and the morning serenity they were basking in.
I felt to lie back and close my eyes, but, they were adamant. They want as they were.
Give me a paper and a pen…if not…then give me cyanide…give me something to be asleep
I lie. I lit a cigarette. The smoke swirls up and got splashed–flat and dismantled; the
fan overhead seems to be moving in slowest speed and slowly softly chanting. I felt the
loneliness coming up from my foot; breathing on my legs and it soon will be up—under to
the waist. Fuck….I cursed self. And put my hand under my head. Loneliness sighs and lies
down beside me. I felt sleepy; a cloud of drowsiness swimming over my eyes. The taste
of the cigarette was bitter–it is at the end. I want to write. I want to vent out. I want to be
satiated; I want my heart to be sore. But, the shackles were clasping me; new cigarette
light up, like a phoenix, from the flame of the last one. The loneliness seducing me on a
fresh trial. I got up and looked in the mirror. Another me standing there bared all.
Give me a paper and a pen…if not…then give me cyanide…give me something to be asleep
I walked to the balcony. Everyone running; everyone fleeing. The cacophony of the
traffic was at high, composed at a haphazard, zig zag note. My eyes roam ‘fore fixating at
the neighbor’s attic. The girl, living there, standing in her innerwear and applying color
on her lips. The haunted feel pushed me to see her as I decide to walk away; it breathes
on my shoulder letting me think the rejected act the best now. Fuck…I say aloud and walk
to the bathroom. And put head under running tap over the filling tub. Melancholia I’m in.
Give me a paper and a pen…if not…then give me cyanide…give me something to be asleep
National Poetry Writing Month Day#11: Bop Poem
A-Z Challenge Day#9: I
A Bop Poem inspired by Sylvia Plath form of writing
Thoughts of Words 
Leave a Reply