The New Yorker: Poetry cover image

Vijay Seshadri Reads Sylvia Plath

The New Yorker: Poetry

CHAPTER

I Love Those Lines With the O Gape of Complete Despair, Ye

i love those lines with the o gape of complete despair i live here, those little slant rhymes and a blue and pews toward the end. I feel like there she says, the grasses unload their griefs on my feet, as if i were god, right? There is a kind of proclamatory quality, rghtut, that, you know, she reaches for a christian myth. She reaches for sort of resurrection and a,you know, i remember reading dutifully in high school that, you trees were symbol of immortalityand so there's this kind of really, she's really in british and american poetryis tradition

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