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Confessional Poetry

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I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night;

Sylvia Plath, 'Ariel'

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Anne Sexton, 'With Mercy for the Greedy'

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.

John Berryman, 'Dream Song 14'

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

Philip Larkin, 'This Be The Verse'

You do not do, you do not do, Any more, black shoe

Sylvia Plath, 'Daddy'

Anger as black as a hook, Overtaking the foreground.

Robert Lowell, 'Skunk Hour'

I am tired of being brave.

Anne Sexton, 'The Truth the Dead Know'

Huffy Henry hid the day, unappeasable Henry sulked.

John Berryman, 'Dream Song 1'

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.

Sylvia Plath, 'Mirror'

There is a minute at the end of it, a minute, a ghost.

Robert Lowell, 'Epilogue'

What did I know about waters rushing back, what did I know about drowning

Adrienne Rich, 'Diving into the Wreck'

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Plath, 'Lady Lazarus'

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.

Sylvia Plath, 'Morning Song'

All day I hear the noise of waters making moan,

James Merrill, 'The Broken Home'

We tell beginnings: for the flesh and the answer,

Muriel Rukeyser, 'Myth'

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