stonepicnicking_okapi

I am reading some essays from The Cambridge Companion to American Poets and last night read an essay about two of the so-called 'confessional poets' Anne Sexton and Sylvia Path. I can't say Plath or Sexton are my favourites but I found two that appealed, in a sort of dark, bitter way, to myself the Housewife.

The Tour by Sylvia Path

O maiden aunt, you have come to call.
Do step into the hall!
With your bold
Gecko, the little flick!
All cogs, weird sparkle and every cog solid gold.
And I in slippers and housedress with no lipstick!

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Self in 1958 by Anne Sexton

What is reality?
I am a plaster doll; I pose
with eyes that cut open without landfall or nightfall
upon some shellacked and grinning person,
eyes that open, blue, steel, and close.
Am I approximately an I. Magnin transplant?
I have hair, black angel,
black-angel-stuffing to comb,
nylon legs, luminous arms
and some advertised clothes.

I live in a doll’s house
with four chairs,
a counterfeit table, a flat roof
and a big front door.
Many have come to such a small crossroad.
There is an iron bed,
(Life enlarges, life takes aim)
a cardboard floor,
windows that flash open on someone’s city,
and little more.
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