The New Yorker: Poetry cover image

Vijay Seshadri Reads Sylvia Plath

The New Yorker: Poetry

CHAPTER

I Love That Poem

I was thinking, when i reading it again and hearing you read it, that was an elegy. But not just for a person, though. The you comes across as some one who is no longer here, who the speaker is missing. You didn't let me know though, that even our phantom selves would come after us. And i love that turn, ind that second stanza. I think this turn in the middle, this this ah moment, this extended kind of riff and metaphor off, these poems coming to life.

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