Sylvia Plath›Poezii

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

Maci pirpirii, limbi subțiri ale iadului Nu vătămați pe nimeni? Voi biciuiți pe-ascuns. Nici nu pot să v-ating Îmi trec mâinile printre

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

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

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 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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children. Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb Where the yew trees blow like hydras, The tree of life

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

Pure? What does it mean? The tongues of hell Are dull, dull as the triple Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable of

The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat. The fat Sacrifices its opacity.... A window, holy gold. The fire makes it precious, The same

Pocket watch, I tick well. The streets are lizardy crevices Sheer-sided, with holes where to hide. It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A

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

Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements. Our voices

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

The air is a mill of hooks---- Questions without answer, Glittering and drunk as flies Whose kiss stings unbearably In the fetid wombs of black

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

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