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Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath

Childless Woman

The womb
Rattles its pod, the moon
Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.
 
My landscape is a hand with no lines,
The roads bunched to a knot,
The knot myself,
 
Myself the rose you acheive——
This body,
This ivory
 
Ungodly as a child’s shriek.
Spiderlike, I spin mirrors,
Loyal to my image,
 
Uttering nothing but blood——
Taste it, dark red!
And my forest
 
My funeral,
And this hill and this
Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.

#AmericanWriters

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For a Fatherless Son

You will be aware of an absence, p… Growing beside you, like a tree, A death tree, color gone, an Aust… Balding, gelded by lightning—an il… And a sky like a pig’s backside, a…
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Conversation Among the Ruins

Through portico of my elegant hous… With your wild furies, disturbing… And the fabulous lutes and peacock… Of all decorum which holds the whi… Now, rich order of walls is fallen…
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
Mirror

I am silver and exact. I have no… Whatever I see I swallow immediat… Just as it is, unmisted by love or… I am not cruel, only truthful— The eye of a little god, four-corn…
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Pheasant

You said you would kill it this mo… Do not kill it. It startles me st… The jut of that odd, dark head, pa… Through the uncut grass on the elm… It is something to own a pheasant,
Berck - Plage

(I) This is the sea, then, this great… How the sun’s poultice draws on my… Electrifyingly—colored sherbets, s… By pale girls, travel the air in s…
The Everlasting Monday

Thou shalt have an everlasting Monday and stand in the moon. The moon’s man stands in his shell… Bent under a bundle Of sticks. The light falls chalk…
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Insomniac

The night is only a sort of carbon… Blueblack, with the much-poked per… Letting in the light, peephole aft… A bonewhite light, like death, beh… Under the eyes of the stars and th…
 3
Crossing the Water

Black lake, black boat, two black,… Where do the black trees go that d… Their shadows must cover Canada. A little light is filtering from t… Their leaves do not wish us to hur…
I Want, I Want

Open-mouthed, the baby god Immense, bald, though baby-headed, Cried out for the mother’s dug. The dry volcanoes cracked and spli… Sand abraded the milkless lip.
Private Ground

First frost, and I walk among the… Of the Greek beauties you brought Off Europe’s relic heap To sweeten your neck of the New Y… Soon each white lady will be board…
The Babysitters

It is ten years, now, since we row… The sun flamed straight down that… That summer we wore black glasses… We were always crying, in our spar… In the two, huge, white, handsome…
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
The Fearful

This man makes a pseudonym And crawls behind it like a worm. This woman on the telephone Says she is a man, not a woman. The mask increases, eats the worm,
New Year on Dartmoor

This is newness: every little tawd… Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculia… Glinting and clinking in a saint’s… Don’t know what to make of the sud… The blind, white, awful, inaccessi…



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