Sylvia Plath›Poezii

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are the last romantics, these candles: Upside-down hearts of light tipping wax fingers, And the fingers, taken in by their own haloes, Grown

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

This was the land\'s end: the last fingers, knuckled and rheumatic, Cramped on nothing. Black Admonitory cliffs, and the sea exploding With no

The horizons ring me like faggots, Tilted and disparate, and always unstable. Touched by a match, they might warm me, And their fine lines

On this bald hill the new year hones its edge. Faceless and pale as china The round sky goes on minding its business. Your absence is

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

Lady, your room is lousy with flowers. When you kick me out, that\'s what I\'ll remember, Me, sitting here bored as a loepard In your jungle of

I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now: This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one, And the white person is

I can taste the tin of the sky --- the real tin thing. Winter dawn is the color of metal, The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves. All

Not easy to state the change you made. If I\'m alive now, then I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it, Staying put according to

You bring me good news from the clinic, Whipping off your silk scarf, exhibiting the tight white Mummy-cloths, smiling: I\'m all right. When I was

Irrefutable, beautifully smug As Venus, pedestalled on a half-shell Shawled in blond hair and the salt Scrim of a sea breeze, the women Settle in

(Rock Lake, Canada) In this country there is neither measure nor balance To redress the dominance of rocks and woods, The passage, say, of these

The abstracts hover like dull angels: Nothing so vulgar as a nose or an eye Bossing the ethereal blanks of their face-ovals. Their whiteness

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in I am learning peacefulness, lying by

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating. Both of you are great light

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