The Canon vs. The Canonball

There are some poets of the American canon that many of us try to love because we're supposed to. This, of course, applies to most of the arts that we study in school. After all, if we're taught Moby Dick enough times maybe it will stop being so damn boring. For some of us, that actually happens. For others (like me) you can see the "objective" (I think you have to put quotes around that word almost all of the time) qualities that make Melville's tale an object of fascination, or even merit. His complex use of allegory and metaphor to explore the experience of fate versus free will is undoubtedly masterful, but that doesn't mean I like it.

I don't like Sylvia Plath. I feel extra guilty saying this because of her particular place in American poetry as a distinctly female poet. Perhaps more importantly, though, she broke stylistic ground in a way that invites comparison to Virginia Woolf.

I secretly hope that my love of Emily Dickinson will help atone for my dislike of Plath. Her eccentricities aside, there's no arguing that her poetry was also stylistically original at the time. There's something about her syntax that I love. It's like she's writing exquisitely rendered little word puzzles, and it's not until you follow her to the very last word that it all falls into perfect place.

If you're not convinced, read for yourself--my husband sent me one of her poems in an email this morning, reminding me why Emily Dickinson rocks:

Our share of night to bear,
Our share of morning,
Our blank in bliss to fill,
Our blank in scorning.

Here a star, and there a star,
Some lose their way.
Here a mist, and there a mist,
Afterwards -- day!