Sylvia Plath

(Re)Writing Ariel

“Sulfurous adulteries
grieve in a dream”
—Sylvia Plath,
“The Other,” Ariel

Now I’m the Goddess—I shot you dead
Too many stolen horses—broken hearts
I got sick of you—my Dark Marauder!!!

Coming home late—licking your lips
After making love to Assia—Butcher in bed
What’s that bad smell—all over you?

Your life no longer—seems intriguing
My deepest emotions—feelings of betrayal
I shot you dead—before you could kill me!!!

I beat the Suicide Club—those literary hacks
I’d rather be a murderess—than a weak sister
I empowered myself—with a black Luger!!!

Ted Hughes under my bed—and Assia Wevill
May you both sleep now—forever and a day
No more dishing—poor suicidal Sylvia!!!

It’s a luxury—being goddess empowered
Getting them—before they could get me
I want them down there—I want them dead!!!

No more Romantic Love—no blue plaques
Nailed to crummy—London brick walls
No William Butler Yeats—wiping his ass!!!

No more Ted Hughes—arrogant savage
Your thick-veined throat—all black and blue
Your turkey gizzard—Yorkshire genitals!!!

No more playing Big Shot—Lord of Love
No more El Perfecto—brooding Big Daddy
Just another skanky—Third Reich pimp!!!

Mytholmroyd’s full of them—failed local poets
I made you professional—you resented it
Goodbye for now—I’ve got a new Double!!!

No more schmaltzy loneliness—tacky ennui
I don’t need subtext anymore—I need sexy
Subversive cleaves—Doppelganger Love!!!

Ariel is my Other—she is my Goddess
My Winged Victory—Nike of Samothrace
Al Alvarez can have—his mediocre Medea

Poor Olwyn Hughes—haughty Dido Merwin
They hated me so—jealous old nags
Like handbags—darkness inside them

My handsome husband—I murdered you
You don’t need—your bloated oeuvre anymore
Did we ever need—a gangster poet laureate?

Philip Larkin would’ve—been a better one
Serving the Queen—with his writer’s block
Letting Madam Thatcher—rot in the Falklands!!!

You don’t need us anymore—or the Queen
You’re an embarrassment—to Great Britain
Rewriting Ariel—without you

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