April Lindner

Yesterday, the Poetry House at West Chester University threw a party for the late, great Sylvia Plath.  Poets, artists scholars, and visual artists were on hand to talk about what Sylvia's work has meant in their lives.   Poet Anna M. Evans Plath was one of the giants who made me want to write poetry in the first place, so I was glad to be on hand to celebrate her genius, and to hear from the many talented women who had gathered to pay tribute. Angela Alaimo O'Donnell One of the wonderful presenters was Angela Alaimo O'Donnell , who read this poem: Sonnet Saint Sylvia                                    February 11 th , 4:30AM Now’s the very time that she did it. Time both of day and of year. The violet hour, between wake and sleep. Her milk-fed boy in the sealed room. The poems stacked neat.  The kitchen clean. Her wifely duties quit...

Walking through Florence's Piazza della Signoria at dusk, I took the above picture.  I wonder if this bride would mind that she's become a permanent part of my photo album and my memories of Italy? I share her with you now because she reminds me of this evocative poem by my friend Jane Satterfield: On Valentine's Day I Pick Up My Wedding Dress Dragged across a sculpted lawn, hem half undone, the Sophia Long Ivory Silk was smeared with August grass. A thrill to wear the Empire waist with shirring at the bust, complete crossover detail and tiny shoulder pleats— The bit of luxe I delayed for months putting into the cleaner’s hands— I loved how it dangled amid the darker palette of my wardrobe with its tattered trail of stains— Prosecco, pollen, one niece’s sandal print, another’s cookie smears . . . Any of my black slip dresses would have done the job. But my ’tween daughter said, It’s supposed to be a celebration, Mom, not ...