By: Radomir Luza

Anti-Medusa
(For Sylvia Plath)

Your words like butterflies
Hair like magenta skies
Celebrating mended lies

Knowing what I do not
Night ending in night beginning
Like a schizophrenic ringing

Victims winning as they are done sinning
Themselves with a bell entering hell

With love time rolls on like a razor
A brazen pistachio caterpillar never
Heavy enough to phase her

###

Queen of Her Scene
(Dedicated to Sylvia Plath)

Suicide like paying rent near Lent
Like a folded tent

The husband eaten with a dent
Without claws he could not repent

Those calling you crazy because they
Cannot understand their own insanity

The green grass under
Your gentle feet

The children who
Never smiled

The white blanket covering you at the end
When oxygen was no friend

###

Splath
(To Sylvia Plath)

Stick the suicidal ideations
In the freezer

Death’s diary
Hell’s Caesar

Bruised and battered
Like your Jesus

Crashed and splattered
Your spiritual visas

Take that monster of a husband
And throw him in the same oven that
Took your life on that grim February day
In the Winter of 1963

As you were finally breaking free
Discovering the alabaster dove
Looking for love

Among those brilliant words that
Never traveled in herds

Metaphors searching for open doors
Images as strong as iron floors
Ideas as powerful as adult boars
Demons as wicked as old whores

###

Lady Lavender
(For Sylvia, my Sylvia)

Hair red as a crimson clown
Verse fed like a reverse frown

Suicide and renown
Your unique gown

Death squared
Life scared
Existence pared

Poetry alive and hissing
Metaphors don’t go missing

God bleak and black
Jesus in an onion sack

Plath, oh, Plath
Where is your particular path?

The one leading to harmony and no wrath?
Peace and the slow way back?

Landing in hell where you dwell
Selling poppies and hair gel

On the way to
The last church bell