Sylvia Plath›Poezii

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

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,

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

This is winter, this is night, small love --- A sort of black horsehair, A rough, dumb country stuff Steeled with the sheen Of what green stars

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 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

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

A smile fell in the grass. Irretrievable! And how will your night dances Lose themselves. In mathematics? Such pure leaps and spirals -

They enter as animals from the outer Space of holly where spikes Are not thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi, But greenness, darkness so pure They

Over your body the clouds go High, high and icily And a little flat, as if they Unlike swans, Having no reflections; Unlike you, With no

No use whistling for Lyonnesse ! Sea-cold, sea-cold it certainly is. Take a look at the white, high berg on his forehead- There\'s where it

This is the easy time, there is nothing doing. I have whirled the midwife\'s extractor, I have my honey, Six jars of it, Six cat\'s eyes in

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts. Nor the woman in the ambulance Whose red heart blooms through her coat so

O half moon--- Half-brain, luminosity--- Negro, masked like a white, Your dark Amputations crawl and appall--- Spidery, unsafe. What

I am a miner. The light burns blue. Waxy stalactites Drip and thicken, tears The earthen womb Exudes from its dead boredom. Black bat

Somebody is shooting at something in our town A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street. Jealousy can open the blood, It can make black roses. Who

Love, the world Suddenly turns, turns color. The streetlight Splits through the rat\'s tail Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning. It is

Two, of course there are two. It seems perfectly natural now --- The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded And balled¸ like Blake\'s. Who

How far is it? How far is it now? The gigantic gorilla interior Of the wheels move, they appall me --- The terrible brains Of Krupp, black

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

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

Viciousness in the kitchen! The potatoes hiss. It is all Hollywood, windowless, The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible

First, are you our sort of a person? Do you wear A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch, A brace or a hook, Rubber breasts or a rubber

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