These "transitional" poems of Crossing the Water bridge Sylvia Plath's early work to her gritting, inspired poetry of the final year of her life.

Readers will be able to see that while the poems are rooted in reality, Plath is beginning her journey toward the almost hallucinatory work as she approached suicide.

These poems are not only a connection between different stages of her creative process but also a reflection of her inner turmoil and the evolution of her artistic vision.

They展现了a unique blend of Plath's signature style, with its sharp imagery and intense emotions, yet also hint at the more experimental and radical directions she would take in her later works.

These are beautiful, substantial poems on the way to the blazing glory of Ariel and the final works of her life.

They offer a fascinating glimpse into the mind of a brilliant and troubled poet, and serve as a testament to her enduring literary legacy.

I feel a stronger connection to Plath in this volume compared to her other collections.

I can envision her in various roles: as a girl perhaps with a double or an imaginary sister, as a camper, a wife, and a mother.

Her ability to notice the sensory details of her surroundings during walks, before being overcome by inner turmoil, as symbolized by the turbulent sea in "Blackberrying," is truly remarkable.

She had a special gift for empathizing with callously disregarded creatures like the "baby carp" in a drained pond and the "doped snakes" flattened on a highway in "Private Ground."

Then there are the inhabitants of the zoo in "Zoo Keeper's Wife," with the wife being caged just like the animals.

In many of these poems, we are not far from the despair that comes with an unerring perception. However, occasionally, there is a glimmer of hope, such as "A brief respite from fear / Of total neutrality" in "Black Rook in Rainy Weather."

I find solace in the fact that she was able to experience "that rare, random descent" of the angel.

As the poems are arranged in this collection, they become increasingly cryptic and reflective of the decay that is rampant in autumn, as Plath imagined herself in death.

Many thinkers and writers, I suspect, reach a line that perhaps should not be crossed when delving into the depths.

I believe Plath crossed that line in her mind, time and again, to the detriment of her mental well-being.

**Title: Obsessed**

Obsession is a powerful force that can consume a person's thoughts, actions, and emotions.

It often starts with a strong interest or passion for something, but it can quickly spiral out of control.

People who are obsessed may find themselves constantly thinking about the object of their obsession, unable to focus on anything else.

They may go to great lengths to obtain or achieve it, sacrificing their time, money, and relationships in the process.

Obsession can have both positive and negative effects.

On one hand, it can drive a person to achieve great things and reach their full potential.

On the other hand, it can lead to addiction, anxiety, and depression if not managed properly.

It is important to recognize when an interest or passion is turning into an obsession and take steps to address it before it causes harm.

This may involve seeking professional help, setting boundaries, or finding healthy ways to channel one's energy.

In conclusion, while obsession can be a powerful motivator, it is essential to maintain a healthy balance and not let it consume our lives.

A Perfect Present!

Finding the perfect present can be a challenging task. It requires careful thought and consideration. You want to give something that not only shows your love and appreciation but also suits the recipient's taste and needs.

Sometimes, the best presents are the ones that are unexpected. It could be a small trinket that reminds them of a special moment or a unique experience that they will never forget.

Other times, it might be a practical gift that they can use every day. This shows that you pay attention to their daily life and care about their comfort.

No matter what you choose, the most important thing is the thought and effort that goes into it. A perfect present is not about the price tag but about the love and心意behind it.

Enjoyed Ariel much better. The collection of poems in Ariel is truly captivating. Take, for example, 'Insomniac'. The night is described as a sort of carbon paper, blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars like peepholes letting in a bonewhite light, like death, behind all things. Under the gaze of the stars and the moon's rictus, the insomniac suffers on his desert pillow, with sleeplessness stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions. The old, granular movie of memories keeps playing in his mind, exposing embarrassments from childhood and adolescence, with parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful, and a garden of buggy rose that made him cry. His forehead is bumpy like a sack of rocks, and memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars. He is immune to pills of various colors that once lit the tedium of the protracted evening but now seem worn-out and silly, like classical gods. His head is a little interior of grey mirrors where each gesture flees down an alley of diminishing perspectives, and its significance drains away. He lives without privacy in a lidless room, with the bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open on the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations. Nightlong, invisible cats howl like women or damaged instruments in the granite yard, and he can already feel daylight, his white disease, creeping up with its hatful of trivial repetitions. The city is now a map of cheerful twitters, and people with mica-silver and blank eyes are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

'Blackberrying' is another wonderful poem. There is nobody in the lane, just blackberries on either side, mainly on the right, forming a blackberry alley that goes down in hooks, with a sea somewhere at the end heaving. The blackberries are as big as the ball of the poet's thumb and as dumb as eyes, ebon in the hedges, fat with blue-red juices that squander on the poet's fingers. The poet didn't ask for such a blood sisterhood, but the blackberries seem to love her, accommodating themselves to her milkbottle by flattening their sides. Overhead, the choughs fly in black, cacophonous flocks, like bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky, their voices protesting. The poet doesn't think the sea will appear at all. The high, green meadows are glowing as if lit from within. The poet comes to a bush of berries so ripe that it is a bush of flies, hanging their bluegreen bellies and wing panes in a Chinese screen. The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them, and they believe in heaven. One more hook, and the berries and bushes end. Now the only thing to come is the sea. A sudden wind funnels at the poet from between two hills, slapping its phantom laundry in her face. These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt. The poet follows the sheep path between them, and a last hook brings her to the hills’ northern face, which is orange rock looking out on nothing but a great space of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths beating and beating at an intractable metal.

Harsh, severe, and beautiful, Plath shines within the genre of poetry.

Her words have the power to cut through the surface and reveal the raw emotions and complex thoughts that lie beneath.

Plath's poetry is not for the faint of heart. It is a bold exploration of the human condition, filled with vivid imagery and powerful metaphors.

She writes about love and loss, pain and suffering, with a honesty and intensity that is both captivating and disturbing.

Despite the harshness of her subject matter, there is also a beauty to be found in Plath's poetry.

Her use of language is masterful, and her poems have a musical quality that makes them a joy to read aloud.

Whether you are a fan of poetry or simply looking for something new to read, Sylvia Plath's work is definitely worth exploring.

Some people assert that the intense interest in Sylvia Plath’s poetry has more to do with the drama surrounding her life, marriage, and death rather than the actual quality of the poetry itself. This claim might hold some truth, but it fails to address the essence of the poetry.

“Crossing the Water” is a substantial work. In contrast to “Winter Trees,” the other volume that compiles the poems she left behind, not a single poem in “Crossing the Water” seems unfinished. All the poems are well-crafted and yet appear less formal than those in her first collection, “The Colossus.” They are rich in memorable lines and internal rhyme.

Plath is a masterful observer of the landscape, which is not only teeming with life but also filled with intimations of death. The opening poem, “Wuthering Heights,” begins with the menacing image: “The horizons ring me like faggots.” It continues with: “If I pay the roots of heather / Too close attention, they will invite me / To whiten my bones among them.” The combination of landscape and death recurs in other poems, such as “I Am Vertical.” Another motif that appears more than once is “blue Mary,” along with other religious imagery.

At times, it seemed to me that Plath was creating poems that were meant to be read together as a set rather than as individual lyrics. While reading the book, I discovered that some of these poems were part of her plan for the “Ariel” collection, but Ted Hughes disregarded her intention when he published it, both in the selection of poems and their order. I don’t wish to take sides between Hughes and Plath, but I’m sorry he did this, whatever his reasons may have been. Regardless, “Crossing the Water” is an excellent collection.

How I admire the Romans—

Their remarkable aqueducts that carried water across vast distances, a feat of engineering that still astounds us today. The magnificent Bath of Caracalla, a symbol of their opulence and sophistication. And that distinctive eagle nose, which seems to exude strength and authority.

The body, in a sense, is a Roman thing. It has a certain grace and power, as if it were sculpted from the finest marble. But it also has to shut its mouth on the stone pill of repose. In the midst of all this grandeur and glory, there is a stillness, a quietude that comes with age and wisdom.

The Romans knew how to live life to the fullest, but they also understood the importance of rest and reflection. Their civilization was a complex tapestry of art, architecture, philosophy, and warfare. And yet, in the end, it all came down to the individual, to the body and the soul. How I long to be a part of that world, if only for a moment.

A few of my favorites:

I Am Vertical

But I would rather be horizontal. I am not a tree firmly rooted in the soil, greedily sucking up minerals and motherly love, so that each March I can burst into leaves with a glorious gleam. Nor am I the enchanting beauty of a garden bed, attracting my fair share of admirers with my spectacular colors, unawares that I must soon shed my petals. Compared to me, a tree seems immortal, and a flower, though not tall, is more startling. I long for the tree's longevity and the flower's daring.

Tonight, under the infinitesimal light of the stars, the trees and flowers have been releasing their cool, refreshing odors. I walk among them, but they pay me no heed. Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping, I must most closely resemble them, with my thoughts fading into dimness. Lying down feels more natural to me. Then, the sky and I engage in an open conversation. And when I finally lie down for good, I shall be useful: the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers will have time for me.

Crossing the Water

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people. Where do the black trees that drink from this lake go? Their shadows must stretch across Canada. A little light filters through the water flowers. Their leaves seem to whisper to us, "Don't hurry." They are round, flat, and full of mysterious, dark advice. Cold worlds tremble with each stroke of the oar. The spirit of blackness dwells within us, within the fishes. A snag lifts a pale, valedictory hand. Stars wink open among the lilies. Are you not blinded by these expressionless sirens? This is the profound silence of astounded souls.

Witch Burning

In the marketplace, they are piling up the dry sticks. A thicket of shadows offers little protection. I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll's body. Sickness begins here: I am a target for witches. Only the devil can consume the devil. In the month of red leaves, I ascend to a bed of fire.

It's easy to blame the dark: the mouth of a door, the cellar's belly. They've extinguished my sparkler. A black-clad lady keeps me imprisoned in a parrot cage. How large the eyes of the dead seem! I am intimate with a hairy spirit. Smoke billows from the beak of this empty jar.

If I am small and insignificant, I can cause no harm. If I remain still, I won't knock anything over. So I thought, sitting under a potted plant, tiny and inert as a rice grain. They are turning up the burners, ring after ring. We are filled with starch, my small white companions. We grow. At first, it hurts. The red tongues of the fire will reveal the truth.

Mother of beetles, only unclench your hand: I'll fly through the candle's mouth like a silent moth. Restore my shape. I am ready to interpret the days I spent united with dust in the shadow of a stone. My ankles grow bright. Brightness climbs up my thighs. I am lost, I am lost, in the glorious robes of all this light.

I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now:

This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one,

And the white person is certainly the superior one.

She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints.

At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality—

She lay in bed with me like a dead body

And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was

Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints.

I couldn't sleep for a week, she was so cold.

I blamed her for everything, but she didn't answer.

I couldn't understand her stupid behavior!

When I hit her she held still, like a true pacifist.

Then I realized what she wanted was for me to love her:

She began to warm up, and I saw her advantages.

— — —

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.

They grew their toes and fingers well enough,

Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.

If they missed out on walking about like people

It wasn't for any lack of mother love.

Oh I cannot understand what happened to them!

They are proper in shape and number and every part.

They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!

They smile and smile and smile and smile at me.

And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start.

The author vividly describes the coexistence of two selves, one white and seemingly superior, the other yellow and the original. The initial hatred and confusion gradually give way to understanding and acceptance as the white self warms up. The second part about the poems is equally poignant, as they seem to have all the right characteristics but still lack the spark of life. The author's inability to understand what went wrong adds to the sense of mystery and sadness. Overall, the text presents a complex exploration of identity, acceptance, and the mystery of life and death.

I think it won't be the best thing I've read from the author but still it seemed very entertaining to me. My favorites are: mirror, insomniac, in plaster <33.

This short piece of writing gives a personal opinion about something the author has read. It shows that even though it might not be the absolute best, there is still enjoyment to be found. The specific items mentioned as favorites, such as mirror, insomniac, and in plaster, add an element of mystery and make the reader curious about what these things represent.

Maybe mirror could symbolize self-reflection or a distorted view of oneself. Insomniac might suggest a state of restlessness or a mind that won't shut off. And in plaster could imply being immobilized or in a state of healing.

Overall, this simple statement leaves room for interpretation and invites the reader to engage with the text on a deeper level.

Favorites:

Wuthering Heights (a new favorite Plath poem)

Insomniac

I Am Vertical

The Babysitters

Leaving Early

Private Ground

Widow

Love Letter

Two Campers in Cloud Country (Rock Lake, Canada)

Mirror

Whitsun

Who

Witch Burning

A Life

Crossing the Water

These are some of the remarkable works that have found a special place in my heart. Each one offers a unique perspective and触动 my emotions in different ways. Wuthering Heights, with its passionate and tumultuous story, has always been a classic that I keep coming back to. The new favorite Plath poem brings a fresh dose of her intense and profound writing. Insomniac explores the sleepless nights and the thoughts that萦绕 in the mind. I Am Vertical presents a powerful image of standing tall and firm. The Babysitters, Leaving Early, and Private Ground all offer insights into different aspects of life and relationships. Widow and Love Letter touch on themes of love and loss. Two Campers in Cloud Country (Rock Lake, Canada) creates a vivid and dreamy atmosphere. Mirror, Whitsun, Who, Witch Burning, A Life, and Crossing the Water are all works that add to the rich tapestry of my literary favorites.