These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis. Dame Kindness, she is so nice! Radiation turned it white And killed it in an hour. Now the thin people do not obliterate Themselves as the dawn Grayness blues, reddens, and the outline Of the world comes clear and fills with color. At their feet, the sea waves bow in single file. I want to be looking at them when they come Picking among the dumb minerals, the roots. Lemon water, chicken Water, water make me retch.
A sultry woman caller who rings during dinner. Faces and darkness separate us over and over. Her father worked for Boston University as a German instructor and a biology professor Steinberg 13. By February, she decided to give the marriage another chance, but it was too late. When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember, Me, sitting here bored as a loepard In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps, Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding And the white china flying fish from Italy. The blood flood is the flood of love, The absolute sacrifice. Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected, And your first gift is making stone out of everything.
Originally a fair, golden-haired maiden, as a priestess of Athena, Medusa was sworn to a life of celibacy. My Japanese silks, desperate butterflies, May be pinned any minute, anesthetized. I sought my image in the scorching glass, for what fire could damage a witch's face? They are always with us, the thin people Meager of dimension as the gray people On a movie-screen. Needless to say, writing was in her blood. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
Then the substanceless blue Pour of tor and distances. I am no drudge Though for years I have eaten dust And dried plates with my dense hair. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. And here you come, with a cup of tea Wreathed in steam. This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions. I was ten when they buried you. Like Medusa, like the moon, she is merciless, unfeeling as stone. Born in 1932 to middle class parents in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts, Sylvia Plath published her first poem at the age of eight. He was sweet, The sweat of his efforts a rain Tugging the world to fruit. I do it so it feels real.
I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus With tigery stripes, and a face on it Round as the moon, to stare up. Here is his slipper, here is another, And here the square of white linen He wore instead of a hat. In March of 1969, she dragged a mattress into the kitchen of her London flat, dissolved a handful of sleeping pills in a glass of water, and shared the potion with her four-year-old daughter. Yet they recede, untouchable as tomorrow, Or those glittery fictions of spilt water That glide ahead of the very thirsty. They stink of armpits And the invovled maladies of autumn, Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
Though Plath suffered from clinical depression, her friends blamed her rival for her death. Then she turned on the gas stove and crawled into bed with the child. Old man, you surface seldom. I think I made you up inside my head. A cool wind should inhabit these leaves And a dew collect on them, dearer than money, In the blue hour before sunup. God's lioness, How one we grow, Pivot of heels and knees! Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. Touch it: it won't shrink like an eyeball, This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear.
Sylvia is beautifully expressing her resentful-yet-awed regard of the woman who stole her husband's heart. Your body Hurts me as the world hurts God. But a dozen would be worth having, A hundred, on that hill-green and red, Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing! Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage ---- My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks. Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. Clownlike, happiest on your hands, Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled, Gilled like a fish.