The thing I don't understand about the people who analyse Plath's poems in terms of the tawdry details of her life - 'She wrote this
one after Ted put his dick in what's her name' - is that it demeans the nature of the relationship. Plath's poetry isn't a never-ending series of reactions to whose vagina her husband's penis is in today. Her poetry is, if you like, her contribution to the never-ending discussion of the meaning of life. I don't see that it is being interpreted the right way if we take some microscope to it and her.
Same here. Look at this rather lovely poem: continued on my blog