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“The wan/sun manages to strike such tin glints/from the linked ponds that my eyes wince/and brim; the city melts like sugar”
Sylvia Plath from Parliament Hill Fields

50 years after her death, I re-read the Collected Poems I received for my 21st birthday and am stunned again by the music of Plath’s precise, vowel-inflected lines, her ache-accurate descriptions, the haunt of imminent or present loss each lyric etches. That’s what lingers. Her certain symphony of images and sounds outside of all biographical exegesis. Poetry is not its content but its singings.