When I shook hands with three people on the same day who had just returned to work from the flu, I knew I was in trouble. However, I didn’t really know just how much trouble I was in until the mercury kept climbing on my thermometer. I’ve spent most of the day grading papers in bed, and sleeping, and waking myself up by talking in my sleep (a very bad habit of mine which gets worse with illness).
In honor of my current temperature, I post this, which might — just might — be my favorite Plath poem:
Pure? What does it mean? The tongues of hell Are dull, dull as the triple Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable Of licking clean The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin. The tinder cries. The indelible smell Of a snuffed candle! Love, love, the low smokes roll From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel. Such yellow sullen smokes Make their own element. They will not rise, But trundle round the globe Choking the aged and the meek, The weak Hothouse baby in its crib, The ghastly orchid Hanging its hanging garden in the air, Devilish leopard! Radiation turned it white And killed it in an hour. Greasing the bodies of adulterers Like Hiroshima ash and eating in. The sin. The sin. Darling, all night I have been flickering, off, on, off, on. The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss. Three days. Three nights. Lemon water, chicken Water, water make me retch. I am too pure for you or anyone. Your body Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern ---- My head a moon Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive. Does not my heat astound you. And my light. All by myself I am a huge camellia Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush. I think I am going up, I think I may rise ---- The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I Am a pure acetylene Virgin Attended by roses, By kisses, by cherubim, By whatever these pink things mean. Not you, nor him. Not him, nor him (My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats) ---- To Paradise.

Emma Bolden is the author of How To Recognize A Lady, a chapbook of poems published as part of Edge by Edge, the third in Toadlily Press' Quartet Series, and The Mariner's Wife, a chapbook published by Finishing Line Press. Her third chapbook, The Sad Epistles, is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press. She was the recipient of a Tennessee Williams Scholarship to the Sewanee Writers' Conference and was named a Finalist for a Ruth Lilly Fellowship by the Poetry Foundation/Poetry magazine. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in such journals as Prairie Schooner, the Indiana Review, Feminist Studies, The Journal, Redivider, The Greensboro Review, and Verse. Her manuscript was a semi-finalist for the Perugia Press Prize. She is a Visiting Assistant Professor of English at Georgetown College, where she also serves as the poetry editor of the Georgetown Review.



5 comments
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February 25, 2008 at 5:21 am
Pamela Hart
Check out the Poetry Foundation’s podcast, Poetry Off The Shelf. There’s a brief exploration of Fever — and a recording of Plath reading the poem — to help you feel better.
February 25, 2008 at 4:15 pm
mariegauthier
Oh, at her best, Plath deserves her own spot on the Periodic Table, she’s pure element.
I’m so sorry that you’ve been felled by the flu! It seems rampant this year. Tylenol & hot toddies for you…I hope it passes swiftly!
February 26, 2008 at 4:47 pm
Jessie Carty
Yuck! I still don’t feel 100% after dealing with all the icky flu like stuff this year. Take care of yourself
But thanks for taking the time to post the poem. Wow!
February 26, 2008 at 7:00 pm
t
Feel better
February 27, 2008 at 12:05 am
emmabolden
Thank you for the good wishes on the flu business! There’s no business like flu business, I can tell you that.
And Pam, thanks for the recording! There once was one on Poets.org — I was so sad to see it’s vanished!