Sylvia Plath›Poezii

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

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

The photographic chamber of the eye records bare painted walls, while an electric light lays the chromium nerves of plumbing raw; such poverty

Riding home from credulous blue domes, the dreamer reins his waking appetite in panic at the crop of catacombs sprung up like plague of

Cold and final, the imagination Shuts down its fabled summer house; Blue views are boarded up; our sweet vacation Dwindles in the

There is a panther stalks me down: One day I\'ll have my death of him; His greed has set the woods aflame, He prowls more lordly than the sun.

\"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.) The stars go

Mayday : two came to field in such wise : `A daisied mead\', each said to each, So were they one; so sought they couch, Across barbed stile,

Sing praise for statuary: For those anchored attitudes And staunch stone eyes that stare Through lichen-lid and passing bird-foot At some

Take the general mumble, blunt as the faceless gut of an anonymous clam, vernacular as the strut of a slug or a small preamble by snail under

On storm-struck deck, wind sirens caterwaul; With each tilt, shock and shudder, our blunt ship Cleaves forward into fury; dark as anger, Waves

Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone, plunges headlong into that black pond where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan floats

Among orange-tile rooftops and chimney pots the fen fog slips, gray as rats, while on spotted branch of the sycamore two black rooks

All right, let\'s say you could take a skull and break it The way you\'d crack a clock; you\'d crush the bone Between steel palms of inclination,

Through portico of my elegant house you stalk With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the

The winter landscape hangs in balance now, Transfixed by glare of blue from gorgon\'s eye; The skaters freese within a stone tableau. Air alters

A Villanelle The sting of bees took away my father who walked in a swarming shroud of wings and scorned the tick of the falling

Never try to trick me with a kiss Pretending that the birds are here to stay; The dying man will scoff and scorn at this. A stone can masquerade

The ordinary milkman brought that dawn Of destiny, delivered to the door In square hermetic bottles, while the sun Ruled decree of doomsday on the

In ruck and quibble of courtfolk This giant hulked, I tell you, on her scene With hands like derricks, Looks fierce and black as rooks; Why,

Here are two pupils whose moons of black transform to cripples all who look: each lovely lady who peers inside take on the body of a

In darkroom of your eye the moonly mind someraults to couterfeit eclipse; bright angels black out over logic\'s land under shutter of their

Born green we were to this flawed garden, but in speckled thickets, warted as a toad, spitefully skulks our warden, fixing his snare which

Color of lemon, mango, peach, These storybook villas Still dream behind Shutters, thier balconies Fine as hand- Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower