Poetry: Toothbrush

So, a few weeks ago in class, somebody mentioned that Sylvia Plath had said that she had found it impossible to put a toothbrush in a poem. Now, while she didn't actually say that, what she did was interesting. To whit:

Now that I have attained, shall I say, a respectable age, and have had experiences, I feel much more interested in prose, in the novel. I feel that in a novel, for example, you can get in toothbrushes and all the paraphernalia that one finds in dally life, and I find this more difficult in poetry. Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals. And I miss them! I'm a woman, I like my little Lares and Penates, I like trivia, and I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life, and so I've become very interested in novel writing as a result.

Naturally, I took this as a challenge. Results below.


Toothbrush

Can you get a toothbrush in a poem?
Sylvia, I’ll give it a damn good go.
Encouraging dental health isn’t hokum,
hence the need for a toothbrush in a poem.
As peripherals go, this one’s wholesome;
and regular use will mean smiles of snow.
Can you get a toothbrush in a poem?
Sylvia, I’ll give it a damn good go.