Anne Sexton or Sylvia Plath?

Did she stick her head in the oven, too. Which one wanted to do all 5he psychiatric facilities the had had famous poets as patients?

Suzanne Somers’ a whore.

Since Vivian Vance is not an option…

Sylvia.

What about Vivian Vance?

I vote for Anne. She kept it real.

They both died of fumes, but Anne asphyxiated in her garage.

I was classmates with Plath's son Nick in Alaska. He killed himself too.

Oh I forgot Viv's haiku on the set with Lucy:

She makes me o'er-eat

So I'm the fat one on cam

Drown her in toilet

I much prefer Sexton. But to be fair, she had more time to grow as an artist and explore variety (like her collection inspired by fairy tales.) This is probably my favorite:

———

THE FORTRESS

Under the pink quilted covers

I hold the pulse that counts your blood.

I think the woods outdoors

are half asleep,

left over from summer

like a stack of books after a flood,

left over like those promises I never keep.

On the right, the scrub pine tree

waits like a fruit store

holding up bunches of tufted broccoli.

We watch the wind from our square bed.

I press down my index finger --

half in jest, half in dread --

on the brown mole

under your left eye, inherited

from my right cheek: a spot of danger

where a bewitched worm ate its way through our soul

in search of beauty. My child, since July

the leaves have been fed

secretly from a pool of beet-red dye.

And sometimes they are battle green

with trunks as wet as hunters' boots,

smacked hard by the wind, clean

as oilskins. No,

the wind's not off the ocean.

Yes, it cried in your room like a wolf

and your pony tail hurt you. That was a long time ago.

The wind rolled the tide like a dying

woman. She wouldn't sleep,

she rolled there all night, grunting and sighing.

Darling, life is not in my hands;

life with its terrible changes

will take you, bombs or glands,

your own child at

your breast, your own house on your own land.

Outside the bittersweet turns orange.

Before she died, my mother and I picked those fat

branches, finding orange nipples

on the gray wire strands.

We weeded the forest, curing trees like cripples.

Your feet thump-thump against my back

and you whisper to yourself. Child,

what are you wishing? What pact

are you making?

What mouse runs between your eyes? What ark

can I fill for you when the world goes wild

The woods are underwater, their weeds are shaking

in the tide; birches like zebra fish

flash by in a pack.

Child, I cannot promise that you will get your wish.

I cannot promise very much.

I give you the images I know.

Lie still with me and watch.

A pheasant moves

by like a seal, pulled through the mulch

by his thick white collar. He's on show

like a clown. He drags a beige feather that he removed,

one time, from an old lady's hat.

We laugh and we touch.

I promise you love. Time will not take away that.

R6 please tell more about her son!

Plath the better poet. Anne more interesting and entertaining as a person.

Plath sounds like a grim harpie. Sexton had no boundaries, may have even molested you, but was otherwise fun (on a good day.)

Anne Shexshton. Shylvia Plath. Poetesshes!

I'm really surprised Anne's life hasn't been made into a movie or limited series.

She had a very engaging persona - both wounded victim and possible villain (based on her daughter's accusations) and there's a lot of story to tell in a story like that.

Anne tried to seduce a Catholic priest. Doesn't that usually happen the other way around?

Not always.

The Fury Of Cocks

There they are

drooping over the breakfast plates, angel-like,

folding in their sad wing, animal sad,

and only the night before

there they were

playing the banjo.

Once more the day's light comes

with its immense sun,

its mother trucks,

its engines of amputation.

Whereas last night

the cock knew its way home,

as stiff as a hammer,

battering in with all

its awful power. That theater.

Today it is tender,

a small bird,

as soft as a baby's hand.

She is the house.

He is the steeple.

When they fuck they are God.

When they break away they are God.

When they snore they are God.

In the morning they butter the toast.

They don't say much.

They are still God.

All the cocks of the world are God,

blooming, blooming, blooming

into the sweet blood of woman

They were both batshit crazy, but Anne was the kind of broad you'd love to sit down and have some drinks with. She was very witty and entertaining.

Music swims back to me

Anne molested her kids.

flee on your donkey Anne.