Sylvia Plath›Poezii

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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

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

By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me. I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet. The nights snapped out of sight like a

Midnight in the mid-Atlantic. On deck. Wrapped up in themselves as in thick veiling And mute as mannequins in a dress shop, Some few passangers

This is the city where men are mended. I lie on a great anvil. The flat blue sky-circle Flew off like the hat of a doll When I fell out of

By the gate with star and moon Worked into the peeled orange wood The bronze snake lay in the sun Inert as a shoelace; dead But pliable still,

In the marketplace they are piling the dry sticks. A thicket of shadows is a poor coat. I inhabit The wax image of myself, a doll\'s

Up here among the gull cries we stroll through a maze of pale red-mottled relics, shells, claws as if it were summer still. That season has

No map traces the street Where those two sleepers are. We have lost track of it. They lie as if under water In a blue, unchanging light,

Once I was ordinary: Sat by my father\'s bean tree Eating the fingers of wisdom. The birds made milk. When it thundered I hid under a flat

A dream tree, Polly\'s tree : a thicket of sticks, each speckled twig ending in a thin-paned leaf unlike any other on it or in a ghost

Clownlike, happiest on your hands, Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled, Gilled like a fish. A common-sense Thumbs-down on the dodo\'s

Out here there are no hearthstones, Hot grains, simply. It is dry, dry. And the air dangerous. Noonday acts queerly On the mind\'s eye erecting

This wood burns a dark Incense. Pale moss drips In elbow-scarves, beards From the archaic Bones of the great trees. Blue mists move over A

The fountains are dry and the roses over. Incense of death. Your day approaches. The pears fatten like little buddhas. A blue mist is dragging

Woodsmoke and a distant loudspeaker Filter into this clear Air, and blur. The red tomato\'s in, the green bean; The cook lugs a pumpkin From

First frost, and I walk among the rose-fruit, the marble toes Of the Greek beauties you brought Off Europe\'s relic heap To sweeten your neck of

Now coldness comes sifting down, layer after layer, To our bower at the lily root. Overhead the old umbrellas of summer Wither like pithless