Dear Sylvia

Dear Sylvia,

Oh, how I wish you could read this letter, had you not left for your heavenly abode by sticking your head in the oven. Quite un-ladylike, they had said, but in my opinion, it was quite cool. I’d like to leave an impact too, even if I do not live to see it. If you didn’t know already, your psychiatrist followed your footsteps too. How original, I must say. I mentioned this to my father once, and now I do not have an oven in my house, so to speak. 

As I write this, I wish to break free of the chains of lethargy, as you did with your Daddy’s influence. Teach me your ways, Madame Plath. “What a thrill, isn’t it?” you said when you wrote ‘Cut’. I crave to know what was so thrilling about the fact that blood was gushing out of your thumb. You know what, keep it to yourself. Curiosity killed the cat, but I hope the cat died a much more peaceful death compared to your self-inflicted agony. Just so you know, I don’t idolise you.

When you said that you “blissfully succumbed to the whirling blackness that I honestly believed was eternal oblivion” I was quite inspired for a long, long time. Not in a very good way, which, again, reminds me not to idolise you. But I did end up writing a poem called “I’ve Tasted Black.” It is horrific, and it may or may not make you rethink what I quoted. Nevertheless, it remains one of the best works I’ve ever written. So thank you, I can’t believe I said that aloud.

What made you so angry and brutal, to resort to morbidity, I can hardly imagine. The number of corpses Lady Lazarus involves is indeed very petrifying. Quite biblical, milady. I assure you, I’m not the stalker that I seem to be by this point, bringing out your life’s tiny insignificantly significant details, that even you might not remember. My apologies; I call myself an ardent researcher. Today, the psychology department of whoever writes our university curriculum defines your words, “joyous positive and despairing negative” as ‘manic depression’. 

I empathise with you, Sylvia, I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. My life is very similar to yours, except, I’m not as talented as you were. You see, I lost my mother when I was eight, the same age as you when you lost your father. We even share a similar rage for empowerment. Your works in Ariel lighten one speck of hope that might be invisible to a naked eye. Even today, in the twenty-first century, people are as blind. They call you God’s Lioness, for evolving from a precocious girl, to the disturbed modern woman, to the vengeful magician. I’m your prey.

Your poetry resonates with adolescents, which is primarily why I am absolutely against the idea of anyone idolising you and your work. Oh, the irony! I am a teenager. You romanticise self-injury and death, which ruined two entire years of my life, you madwoman. Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. (To others who read this letter, I definitely meant to do so, but don’t tell Ms Plath.)

I wish I could be a post-war poet like you, but, given the current world situation - which you, of course, can’t experience - I’m a mid-pandemic poet. Not very impressive, huh? I wasn’t looking to impress you anyway. 

With love and a glare,

Jhanavi.