Sylvia Plath

Dragostea te-a-nceput, ca ora în ceasul de aur. Moașa ți-a dat cu palma peste tălpi și țipătul tău A răsunat peste stihii. Ne-am bucurat de tine

Stază în beznă. Apoi albastrul inefabil Care se revarsă de pe deal și din zare. Leoaica Domnului, Cum devenim o singură ființă, Puls de

Sunt de argint și exactă. Nu am prejudecăți. Orice văd înghit imediat Așa cum e, ne-ncețoșat de dragoste sau repulsie. Nu sunt crudă, ci doar

Vin ca animalele din hăul cosmic Al ilicelor, unde țepii nu seamănă deloc Cu gândurile pe care mă răsucesc ca un yogin. Verdeață sunt și-ntunecime

Lalele sunt din cale afară de vii și aici e iarnă. Totul e atât de alb, de tăcut, și-ngropat în zăpadă. Singură zăcând în tăcere mă deprind cu

am comis-o din nou la fiecare zece ani o scot la capăt ---- un soi de miracol ambulant, pielea mea strălucitoare precum un abajur

Aceasta este lumina minții, rece, și planetară. Copacii din minte sunt negri. Lumina e albastră. Ierburile își leapădă suferințele la picioarele

Maci micuți, voi, mici flăcări ale iadului, Chiar nu faceți nici un rău ? Pâlpâiți. Nu pot să vă ating. Îmi întind mâinile printre flăcări. Nu

Cuvântul unui melc în palma unei frunze? Nu-i de la mine. Nu. Să nu-l accepți. Acid acetic într-o cutiuță-nchisă? Să nu-l primești. Nu-i

Cunosc străfundul, spune ea. L-am cunoscut cu brațul unei rădăcini. Þie de el ți-e teamă. Eu n-am nici o spaimă : am fost chiar acolo. Tu n-auzi

Dar aș prefera orizontala. Eu nu sunt un arbore, cu rădăcinile adânc înfipte în pământ din care să sorb minerale și dragoste maternă, ca să pot

Nici norii însoriți ai acestei dimineți nu-și pot croi asemenea veșminte Nici femeia din ambulanță A cărei inimă roșie îi înflorește uimitor prin

Iubitule, lumea Se rotește deodată, își rotește culoarea, felinarul din stradă Își strecoară lumina prin cozile de șobolan Ale păstăilor laurului

Câmpurile pășesc îndepărtându-se întru alb, Făpturi sau stele Mă privesc triste, le dezamăgesc. Trenul lasă in urma lui o linie de suflare. O,

The night is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --- A

Vara îmbătrânește; mamă cu sângele rece. Rare-s gâzele, firave. În aceste palustre sălașe, doar noi orăcăim și tânjim. Diminețile se risipesc

Pură ? Ce vrea să însemne asta ? Limbile Gheenei Sunt plicticoase aidoma celor trei limbi Ale plicticosului, pântecosului Cerber Care șuieră-n

Solii Lumea unui melc pe tipsia unei frunze. Nu-mi aparține. Să nu o accepți. Acid acetic într-o butelie sigilată Nu-l accepta. Nu-i

Nimeni pe cărare, și nimic, nimic decât mure, mure de o parte, de alta, deși mai mult către dreapta, o cărare de mure, coborând în ocoluri, și

Whiteness being what I remember About Sam: whiteness and the great run He gave me. I\'ve gone nowhere since but Going\'s been tame deviation.

The yew\'s black fingers wag: Cold clouds go over. So the deaf and dumb Signal the blind, and are ignored. I like black statements. The

The white light is artificial, and hygienic as heaven. The microbes cannot survive it. They are departing in their transparent garments, turned

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. What ever you see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not

When night comes black Such royal dreams beckon this man As lift him apart From his earth-wife\'s side To wing, sleep-feathered, The singular

Stasis in darkness. Then the substanceless blue Pour of tor and distances. God\'s lioness, How one we grow, Pivot of heels and knees!--The

Touch it: it won\'t shrink like an eyeball, This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear. Here\'s yesterday, last year --- Palm-spear and lily

What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful? It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges? I am sure it is unique, I am sure it

Since Christmas they have lived with us, Guileless and clear, Oval soul-animals, Taking up half the space, Moving and rubbing on the

In the dour ages Of drafty cells and draftier castles, Of dragons breathing without the frame of fables, Saint and king unfisted obstruction\'s

In Alicante they bowl the barrels Bumblingly over the nubs of the cobbles Past the yellow-paella eateries, Below the ramshackle back-alley

Compelled by calamity\'s magnet They loiter and stare as if the house Burnt-out were theirs, or as if they thought Some scandal might any minute

At this wharf there are no grand landings to speak of. Red and orange barges list and blister Shackled to the dock, outmoded, gaudy, And

1 They\'re out of the dark\'s ragbag, these two Moles dead in the pebbled rut, Shapeless as flung gloves, a few feet apart --- Blue suede a dog

the slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull and if my stomach would contract because of some explicable phenomenon such as

I\'m through with this grand looking-glass hotel where adjectives play croquet with flamingo nouns; methinks I shall absent me for a while from

If you dissect a bird To diagram the tongue You\'ll cut the chord Articulating song. If you flay a beast To marvel at the mane You\'ll wreck

Worship this world of watercolor mood in glass pagodas hung with veils of green where diamonds jangle hymns within the blood and sap ascends the

(I) This is the sea, then, this great abeyance. How the sun\'s poultice draws on my inflammation. Electrifyingly-colored sherbets, scooped

In the Archæological Museum in Cambridge is a stone coffin of the fourth century A.D. containing the skeletons of a woman, a mouse and a

The smile of iceboxes annihilates me. Such blue currents in the veins of my loved one! I hear her great heart purr. From her lips ampersands

Will they occur, These people with torso of steel Winged elbows and eyeholes Awaiting masses Of cloud to give them expression, These

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

There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself--- Infinite, green, utterly untouchable. Angels swim in it, and the stars, in

Empty, I echo to the least footfall, Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas. In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks

Here in this valley of discrete academies We have not mountains, but mounts, truncated hillocks To the Adirondacks, to northern

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries, Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly, A blackberry alley, going down

deep in liquid turquoise slivers of dilute light quiver in thin streaks of bright tinfoil on mobile jet: pale flounder waver by tilting

Spry, wry, and gray as these March sticks, Percy bows, in his blue peajacket, among the narcissi. He is recuperating from something on the

Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs, Eyes rolled by white sticks, Ears cupping the sea\'s incoherences, You house your unnerving

I can stay awake all night, if need be -- Cold as an eel, without eyelids. Like a dead lake the dark envelops me, Blueblack, a spectacular plum

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, Whistling,

Grub-white mulberries redden among leaves. I\'ll go out and sit in white like they do, Doing nothing. July\'s juice rounds their nubs. This park

Tell me what you see in it : The pine tree like a Rorschach-blot black against the orange light : Plant an orange pumpkin patch which at

All morning in the strawberry field They talked about the Russians. Squatted down between the rows We listened. We heard the head woman

On the stiff twig up there Hunches a wet black rook Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain. I do not expect a miracle Or an

I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it-- A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A

Outlandish as a circus, the ravaged face Parades the marketplace, lurid and stricken By some unutterable chagrin, Maudlin from leaky eye to

Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear; The wheels revolve, the universe keeps running. (Proud you halt upon the spiral stair.) The asteroids

Little poppies, little hell flames, Do you do no harm? You flicker. I cannot touch you. I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns. And

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,

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, opaque As

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing. I want to fill it with color and ducks, The zoo of the new Whose names you meditate

It is a chilly god, a god of shades, Rises to the glass from his black fathoms. At the window, those unborn, those undone Assemble with the frail

The Triumph of Wit Over Suffering Head alone shows you in the prodigious act Of digesting what centuries alone digest: The mammoth, lumbering

Non servi, non servi Non più, nera scarpa, come un piede vi ho vissuto Per trent\'anni, gramo e bianco, Trattenendo fiato e starnuto.

The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels, Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels Begin on tilted

The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment, The illusion of a Greek necessity Flows in the scrolls of her toga, Her

The day you died I went into the dirt, Into the lightless hibernaculum Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard Like hieratic

You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or

I came before the water --- Colorists came to get the Good of the Cape light that scours Sand grit to sided crystal And buffs and sleeks the

For Susan O\'Neill Roe What a thrill --- My thumb instead of an onion. The top quite gone Except for a sort of a hinge Of skin, A flap like

Kindness glides about my house. Dame Kindness, she is so nice! The blue and red jewels of her rings smoke In the windows, the mirrors Are filling

I made a fire; being tired Of the white fists of old Letters and their death rattle When I came too close to the wastebasket What did they know

Sky and sea, horizon-hinged Tablets of blank blue, couldn\'t, Clapped shut, flatten this man out. The great gods, Stone-Head, Claw-Foot Winded

The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve. On their blotter of fog the trees Seem a botanical drawing. Memories growing, ring on ring,

\"Overnight, very Whitely, discreetly, Very quietly Our toes, our noses Take hold on the loam, Acquire the air. Nobody sees us,

\"I shall never get you put together entirely, Pieced, glued, and properly jointed. Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles Proceed from your

From under the crunch of my man\'s boot green oat-sprouts jut; he names a lapwing, starts rabbits in a rout legging it most nimble to sprigged

This is not what I meant: Stucco arches, the banked rocks sunning in rows, Bald eyes or petrified eggs, Grownups coffined in stockings and

For Ruth Fainlight I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people. Where do the black trees go that drink here? Their shadows must cover Canada. A little

He, hunger-strung, hard to slake, So fitted is for my black luck (With heat such as no man could have And yet keep kind) That all merit\'s in

The engine is killing the track, the track is silver, It stretches into the distance. It will be eaten nevertheless. Its running is useless. At

From Water-Tower Hill to the brick prison The shingle booms, bickering under The sea\'s collapse. Snowcakes break and welter. This year The

Bare-handed, I hand the combs. The man in white smiles, bare-handed, Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet, The throats of our wrists brave

These poems do not live: it\'s a sad diagnosis. They grew their toes and fingers well enough, Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.

Widow. The word consumes itself --- Body, a sheet of newsprint on the fire Levitating a numb minute in the updraft Over the scalding, red

The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf? It is not mine. Do not accept it. Acetic acid in a sealed tin? Do not accept it. It is not

Color floods to the spot, dull purple. The rest of the body is all washed out, The color of pearl. In a pit of rock The sea sucks

He was the bullman earlierm King of the dish, my lucky animal. Breathing was easy in his airy holding. The sun sat in his armpit. Nothing went

Axes After whose stroke the wood rings, And the echoes! Echoes traveling Off from the center like horses. The sap Wells like tears,

It happens. Will it go on?--- My mind a rock, No fingers to grip, no tongue, My god the iron lung That loves me, pumps My two Dust bags

Jade--- Stone of the side, The antagonized Side of green Adam, I Smile, cross-legged, Enigmatical, Shifting my clarities. So valuable!

The hills step off into whiteness. People or stars Regard me sadly, I disappoint them. The train leaves a line of breath. O slow Horse

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

The month of flowering\'s finished. The fruit\'s in, Eaten or rotten. I am all mouth. October\'s the month for storage. Thie shed\'s fusty as a

Clocks belled twelve. Main street showed otherwise Than its suburb of woods : nimbus--- Lit, but unpeopled, held its windows Of wedding

But I would rather be horizontal. I am not a tree with my root in the soil Sucking up minerals and motherly love So that each March I may gleam

Arena dust rusted by four bulls\' blood to a dull redness, The afternoon at a bad end under the crowd\'s truculence, The ritual death each time

I\'m a riddle in nine syllables. An elephant, a ponderous house, A melon strolling on two tendrils. O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers! This