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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.

#Americans #Suicide #Women

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Battle-Scene From the Comic Operatic Fantasy The Seafarer

It beguiles— This little Odyssey In pink and lavender Over a surface of gently– Graded turquoise tiles
Incommunicado

The groundhog on the mountain did… But fatly scuttled into the splaye… And faced me, back to a ledge of d… Her sallow rodent teeth like casta… Against my leaning down, would not…
Magi

The abstracts hover like dull ange… Nothing so vulgar as a nose or an… Bossing the ethereal blanks of the… Their whiteness bears no relation… Snow, chalk or suchlike. They’re
 1
Maudlin

Mud-mattressed under the sign of t… In a clench of blood, the sleep-ta… Gibbets with her curse the moon’s… ****-bearing Jack in his crackless… Hatched with a claret hogshead to…
Cinderella

The prince leans to the girl in sc… Her green eyes slant, hair flaring… Of silver as the rondo slows; now… Begin on tilted violins to span The whole revolving tall glass pal…
The Couriers

The word of a snail on the plate o… It is not mine. Do not accept it. Acetic acid in a sealed tin? Do not accept it. It is not genui… A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Ouija

It is a chilly god, a god of shade… Rises to the glass from his black… At the window, those unborn, those… Assemble with the frail paleness o… An envious phosphorescence in thei…
Full Fathom Five

Old man, you surface seldom. Then you come in with the tide’s coming When seas wash cold, foam— Capped: white hair, white beard,
Cut

What a thrill —— My thumb instead of an onion. The top quite gone Except for a sort of a hinge Of skin,
 3
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…
 1
Love Is a Parallax

'Perspective betrays with its dich… train tracks always meet, not here… in the impossible mind’s eye; horizons beat a retreat as we emba… on sophist seas to overtake that m…
 1
On the Difficulty of Conjuring Up a Dryad

Ravening through the persistent br… Of blunt pencils, rose-sprigged co… Postage stamps, stacked books’ cla… Neighborhood cockcrow —all nature’… The vaunting mind
The Burnt

An old beast ended in this place: A monster of wood and rusty teeth. Fire smelted his eyes to lumps Of pale blue vitreous stuff, opaqu… As resin drops oozed from pine bar…
 1
The Companionable Ills

The nose—end that twitches, the ol… Tolerable now as moles on the face Put up with until chagrin gives pl… To a wry complaisance—— Dug in first as God’s spurs
Burning the Letters

I made a fire; being tired Of the white fists of old Letters and their death rattle When I came too close to the wast… What did they know that I didn’t?



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