A vulturous boredom

For all of Sylvia Plath's poetry that I've been reading lately, most of it doesn't speak to me. Sure, I appreciate her nice turn of phrase, a clever juxtaposition, but it doesn't rend my heart or my gut the way I think poetry should, the way the best poetry does (for me). It doesn't make me gasp wordless, ngaa-ah. But this poem comes close.

The Hanging Man

By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.
I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.

The nights snapped out of sight like a lizard's eyelid: 

A world of bald white days in a shadeless socket.

A vulturous boredom pinned me in this tree.
If he were I, he would do what I did.

— from Ariel, by Sylvia Plath.