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Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath

Bluebeard
I am sending back the key
that let me into bluebeard’s study;
because he would make love to me
I am sending back the key;
in his eye’s darkroom I can see
my X-rayed heart, dissected body:
I am sending back the key
that let me into bluebeard’s study.

#AmericanWriters #FemaleWriters #Suicide

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Song for a Summer’s Day

Through fen and farmland walking With my own country love I saw slow flocked cows move White hulks on their day’s cruisin… Sweet grass sprang for their grazi…
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Dark House

This is a dark house, very big. I made it myself, Cell by cell from a quiet corner, Chewing at the grey paper, Oozing the glue drops,
Doomsday

The idiot bird leaps out and drunk… Atop the broken universal clock: The hour is crowed in lunatic thir… Out painted stages fall apart by s… While all the actors halt in morta…
Thalidomide

O half moon— Half-brain, luminosity— Negro, masked like a white, Your dark Amputations crawl and appall—
April Aubade

Worship this world of watercolor m… in glass pagodas hung with veils o… where diamonds jangle hymns within… and sap ascends the steeple of the… A saintly sparrow jargons madrigal…
The Great Carbuncle

We came over the moor—top Through air streaming and green—li… Stone farms foundering in it, Valleys of grass altering In a light neither dawn
Denouement Villanelle

The telegram says you have gone aw… And left our bankrupt circus on it… There is nothing more for me to sa… The maestro gives the singing bird… And they buy tickets for the tropi…
Stopped Dead

A squeal of brakes. Or is it a birth cry? And here we are, hung out over the… Uncle, pants factory Fatso, milli… And you out cold beside me in your…
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Man in Black

Where the three magenta Breakwaters take the shove And suck of the grey sea To the left, and the wave Unfists against the dun
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On the Plethora of Dryads

Hearing a white saint rave About a quintessential beauty Visible only to the paragon heart, I tried my sight on an apple-tree That for eccentric knob and wart
Child's Park Stones

In sunless air, under pines Green to the point of blackness, s… Founding father set these lobed, w… To loom in the leaf—filtered gloom Black as the charred knuckle—bones
Notes to a Neophyte

Take the general mumble, blunt as the faceless gut of an anonymous clam, vernacular as the strut of a slug or a small preamble
Flute Notes from a Reedy Pond

Now coldness comes sifting down, l… To our bower at the lily root. Overhead the old umbrellas of summ… Wither like pithless hands. There… Hourly the eye of the sky enlarges…
Suicide Off Egg Rock

Behind him the hotdogs split and d… On the public grills, and the ochr… Gas tanks, factory stacks– that la… Of imperfections his bowels were p… Rippled and pulsed in the glassy u…
The Death of Myth-Making

Two virtues ride, by stallion, by… To grind our knives and scissors: Lantern—jawed Reason, squat Commo… One courting doctors of all sorts, One, housewives and shopkeepers.



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