We spent a week talking about Plath.
You were interested in discussing her Juvenilia,
Her characters, like Eva, Cinderella and the neophyte,
And how they were her, of course, in some weird and
Wonderful way.
I made toshing noises and shook my head,
Stirring my cup of green tea with my left hand.
I wanted to discuss ‘Love is A Parallax’ and her metaphors
Of the theatre – almost Brechtian, didn’t you think?
We made plans to be Poet Laureate; we’d giggle while
Composing speeches about the value of semiotics
And you’d write essays on ‘Euphony and How it Has
Affected Poetics’ and recite them to me,
Balancing your glasses on your nose in a way that
Could only suggest pomp and vainglory.
Of course we’d be distracted, by the cooking-timer
Going off, or dentist appointments or coffee with friends,
But you’d discipline us with your extensive
References to Johnny Panic and his cronies.
The next week, the wind changed, and our dreams
Cartwheeled into new discussions of Bukowski or Nabokov.
We never seemed to spend more than a week on a writer.
We were impatient students then, and there just wasn’t time
For the philosophies and writings of only one.