♥ Loving Sylvia Plath ♥
chelseabones:

"I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.” -Sylvia Plath
My third tattoo! I absolutely love sylvia plath and the bell jar and I feel like this quote applies to my life. It also covers up some scars from cutting. I love it!

chelseabones:

"I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.” -Sylvia Plath

My third tattoo! I absolutely love sylvia plath and the bell jar and I feel like this quote applies to my life. It also covers up some scars from cutting. I love it!

The “Sylvia Plath Submitted Tattoos”-Week part 1!

Hello again! ;)

This week will all be about Sylvia Plath tattoos, especially about these that were submitted to my second blog http://sylviaplathink.tumblr.com/ during the last months. Even though I love all of the ink on there, I feel like the submitted tattoos deserve some extra love, because people actually wanted to be featured on by blog and I’m always so happy about it! :)

Also, with Sylvia Plath Ink’s 4th Birthday coming up this month, I decided to post one Sylvia Plath tattoo every day the whole September long over there! I hope you like! :)

And remember, you can always submit via lovingsylviaplath@gmail.com or http://sylviaplathink.tumblr.com/submit or send me the link to your posted tattoo so I can reblog it!

Enjoy! :)

The biographer of an artist has one obligation and one only: to make the reader come away with a richer understanding of the relationship between the life and the work. A few who more than earn their way are Richard Holmes on Coleridge, James Lord on Alberto Giacometti, Judith Thurman on Isak Dineson, W. Jackson Bate on Samuel Johnson, Anne Stevenson on Sylvia Plath. The excellence of their books is derived from an affinity between subject and biographer that guides the work as a whole, is organized around one or two powerful insights and illuminates the subject’s work anew. “Bitter Fame,” Stevenson’s book on Plath, is a fine example of the genre at its best.

Every English-speaking reader of poetry knew that Sylvia Plath was angry because Daddy died; but, ah, what did we know from anger? Stevenson makes us experience Plath’s rage in all its breath-taking command. The rage was her true intimate: It had no rival. We see it as an embrace into which she sank without a struggle. The poems could indicate its strength, depth, and originality, but, finally, it was only suicide that could distinguish it. Stevenson’s book concentrates so intelligently on Plath’s self-consumption that, at last, we understand it in our nerve endings. After “Bitter Fame,” one does not again read the poems as one did before.

Vivian Gornick on what she says is the ‘best biography on Sylvia Plath’. (via booksandpublishing)

This is a joke, right? Bitter Fame may be the worst biography ever written on Plath (“may” because I’m not sure if Edward Butscher’s Method and Madness does not deserve the crown… only saying “bitch goddess”), because it was written with the collaboration, or as some claim even (partly) by Olwyn Hughes, Ted Hughes’ sister who, as we all know, hated Plath! Every Plath scholar knows (or should know) that Bitter Fame is a very onesided, opinionated and unsympathetic biography.

See also Janet Malcom’s The Silent Woman.

I wonder now, on August 6, lying here on my white bed, listening to the rain: slant long and hard on the roof outside my windows coming down liquidly, drippingly plural and generous from the low gray skies, fluently saying what I choose to make it say. Slanting down the screen in milky, translucent streams, prolific, uncaringly beneficent, it heals or annoys, (as we humans choose to translate it.) And I love it because of the sound, and the gray pluvial walls of it dropping down, closing in.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 6 August 1952
Three years ago, the hot, sticky August rain fell big and wet as I sat listlessly on my porch at home, crying over the way summer would not come again - never the same. […] August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 8 August 1952
And I look at the windshield wipers cutting an arch out of the sprinkled raindrops on the glass. Click-click. Clip-clip. Tick-tick. snip-snip. And it goes on and on. I could smash the measured clicking sound that haunts me - draining away life, and dreams, and idle reveries. Hard, sharp, ticks. I hate them. Measuring thought, infinite space, by cogs and wheels. Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn -
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950
Rain on roof outside window, gray light, deep covers and warm blankets. Rain and nip of autumn in air; nostalgia, itch to work better and bigger. That crisp edge of autumn.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 26 August 1956 in Paris
May 13 - today I bought a raincoat - no, that was yesterday - yesterday I bought a raincoat with a frivolous pink lining that does good to my eyes because I have never ever had anything pink-colored, and it was much too expensive - I bought it with a month’s news office pay, and soon I will not have any money to do anything more with because I am buying clothes because I love them and they are exactly right, if I pay enough. And I feel dry and a bit sick whenever I say “I’ll take it” and the smiling woman goes away with my money because she doesn’t know I really don’t have money at all at all. For three villanelles I have a blue-and-white pin-striped cotton cord suit dress, a black silk date dress and a grey raincoat with a frivolous pink lining.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 13 May 1953
Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, August 1950
The “Sylvia-Plath-on-Rain”-Week!

It’s only August and I was hoping to finally enjoy a few days off and catch some sun at the sea in Holland… yeah… It has been raining for the past 10 days straight and it seems the summer is saying its premature goodbyes. Even my turtle seems to know the fall is coming, because she doesn’t want to eat anymore. Looks as if she prepares herself for hibernation.

That’s why I thought we might have a "Sylvia-Plath-on-Rain"-week! ;) Plath’s journals, letters and poems are filled with wonderful descriptions of rainy days and rain related situations. This week, I’m going to present you a few rainy quotes from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.

I hope you like! :)

amandaonwriting:

Happy Birthday, Ted Hughes, born 17 August 1930, died 28 October 1998 
Five Quotes
The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn’t live boldly enough, that they didn’t invest enough heart, didn’t love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.
What happens in the heart simply happens.
What’s writing really about? It’s about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life.
Applause is the beginning of abuse.
…imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up laboriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at it, touch it, smell it, listen to it, turn yourself into it. When you do this, the words look after themselves, like magic.
Hughes was an English poet and children’s writer. He was British Poet Laureate from 1984 until his death. Hughes was married to American poet Sylvia Plath, from 1956 until her suicide in 1963. In 2008 The Times ranked Hughes fourth on their list of ‘The 50 greatest British writers since 1945’.
Source for Image
by Amanda Patterson for Writers Write

amandaonwriting:

Happy Birthday, Ted Hughes, born 17 August 1930, died 28 October 1998 

Five Quotes

  1. The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn’t live boldly enough, that they didn’t invest enough heart, didn’t love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.
  2. What happens in the heart simply happens.
  3. What’s writing really about? It’s about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life.
  4. Applause is the beginning of abuse.
  5. …imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up laboriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at it, touch it, smell it, listen to it, turn yourself into it. When you do this, the words look after themselves, like magic.

Hughes was an English poet and children’s writer. He was British Poet Laureate from 1984 until his death. Hughes was married to American poet Sylvia Plath, from 1956 until her suicide in 1963. In 2008 The Times ranked Hughes fourth on their list of ‘The 50 greatest British writers since 1945’.

Source for Image

by Amanda Patterson for Writers Write

You should definitely check out this Tribute To The Poet Ted Hughes, if you want to learn a little more about him, his poetry and hear him read an excerpt from his children’s story The Iron Man.

HAPPY 84th BIRTHDAY Ted Hughes! RIP!

***
Picture via http://www.thesundaytimes.co.uk

HAPPY 84th BIRTHDAY Ted Hughes! RIP!

Just in case, you didn’t already see…

This month, I am going to post one Sylvia Plath tattoo every day on http://sylviaplathink.tumblr.com/ !

And remember, you can always submit your tattoo to: lovingsylviaplath@gmail.com

poemsofthequiet:

Sylvia Plath, possibly around the years of ‘60-63 (?) (possibly right before her death). For some reason I tend to prefer her during this time. There’s something about the way she appears around the 60s. I also prefer her dark hair and bangs over her blonde locs of the 50s. My favorite is the second photo, it seems like a poem is creeping up inside of her head, or maybe she’s just simply lost in thought. 

(Photo source)

Actually these pictures were taken in July 1959 during the road trip Plath and Hughes took together. The first pic was taken at at Rock Lake, Algonquin Provincial Park in Ontario, Canada and the second one at Jackson Lake, Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, USA.

You can find boths pictures along with three others from this trip in The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.