The first word ‘clownlike’ made me think about how much and how easily children laugh and how we lose that giggliness when we get older and activity turns into work. Whatever its actual meaning, the poem started a train of thought about beginnings – the optimism, playfulness, and hope. But a number of lines did not make sense (e.g.Gilled like a fish) until I realised it was about the unborn child she was carrying. “O high-riser, my little loaf” just made me smile. On first reading I thought it about a newborn infant and I related to it by remembering my own children at that age, all full of vague potential. The first thing I read was the poem ‘You’re’ and I thought it lovely. This time it happened when flicking through the booklet about her given away with today’s Guardian. Just like the next man I am full of petty prejudices but I am quite happy to be proved wrong. Rather shamefacedly, I must admit I have not only never read any Sylvia Plath, I have actively avoided her work.
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