This edition includes all of the known poems written by the great Keats, lightly modernized and accompanied by extensive notes and extracts from his letters. Keats writes so profoundly of feelings of melancholy and great joys alike. In his “Fancy”, he writes of the joys and power of the imagination:
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me
Of the Fancy's silken leash; Quickly break her prison-string And such joys as these she'll bring.— Let the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.In the introduction, Plath’s husband Ted Hughes writes: “To my knowledge, she never scrapped any of her poetic efforts. With one or two exceptions, she brought every piece she worked on to some final form acceptable to her, rejecting at most the odd verse, or a false head or a false tail. Her attitude to her verse was artisan-like: if she couldn’t get a table out of the material, she was quite happy to get a chair, or even a toy. The end product for her was not so much a successful poem, as something that had temporarily exhausted her ingenuity. So this book contains not merely what verse she saved, but—after 1956—all she wrote.” This comprehensive edition gives us all of Plath, her misery and her joys. Plath leaves behind a legacy, and sheds a light on mental illness. Of her poems, “Lady Lazarus” is one of the most powerful:
Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
When day comes we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade? The loss we carry, a sea we must wade. We've braved the belly of the beast, We've learned that quiet isn't always peace, and the norms and notions of what just is isn't always just-ice.
…butchered girl chopped up & cradled in Styrofoam for [him] – candid cannibal.
My first felony—I took up with poetry. For this penalty, the rice burned. Mother warned I’d never wife. Wife? A woman like me. whose choice was rolling pin or factory. An absurd vice, this wicked wanton writer’s life.
Quick step on the stick of the wooded path, I step back as if to undo sound, as if the soul I stalk could hear past the raucous song of herself unfound.
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