Sylvia Plath›Poezii

Whiteness being what I remember About Sam: whiteness and the great run He gave me. I\'ve gone nowhere since but Going\'s been tame deviation.

At this wharf there are no grand landings to speak of. Red and orange barges list and blister Shackled to the dock, outmoded, gaudy, And

Compelled by calamity\'s magnet They loiter and stare as if the house Burnt-out were theirs, or as if they thought Some scandal might any minute

Outlandish as a circus, the ravaged face Parades the marketplace, lurid and stricken By some unutterable chagrin, Maudlin from leaky eye to

The day you died I went into the dirt, Into the lightless hibernaculum Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard Like hieratic

Sky and sea, horizon-hinged Tablets of blank blue, couldn\'t, Clapped shut, flatten this man out. The great gods, Stone-Head, Claw-Foot Winded

From Water-Tower Hill to the brick prison The shingle booms, bickering under The sea\'s collapse. Snowcakes break and welter. This year The

Blameless as daylight I stood looking At a field of horses, necks bent, manes blown, Tails streaming against the green Backdrop of sycamores. Sun

Clocks belled twelve. Main street showed otherwise Than its suburb of woods : nimbus--- Lit, but unpeopled, held its windows Of wedding

I\'m a riddle in nine syllables. An elephant, a ponderous house, A melon strolling on two tendrils. O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers! This

In sunless air, under pines Green to the point of blackness, some Founding father set these lobed, warped stones To loom in the leaf-filtered

The nose-end that twitches, the old imperfections--- Tolerable now as moles on the face Put up with until chagrin gives place To a wry

Behind him the hotdogs split and drizzled On the public grills, and the ochreous salt flats, Gas tanks, factory stacks- that landscape Of

Sharded in black, like beetles, Frail as antique earthenwear One breath might shiver to bits, The old women creep out here To sun on the rocks or

Old goatherds swear how all night long they hear The warning whirr and burring of the bird Who wakes with darkness and till dawn works

Where the three magenta Breakwaters take the shove And suck of the grey sea To the left, and the wave Unfists against the dun Barb-wired

The groundhog on the mountain did not run But fatly scuttled into the splayed fern And faced me, back to a ledge of dirt, to rattle Her sallow

The word, defining, muzzles; the drawn line Ousts mistier peers and thrives, murderous, In establishments which imagined lines Can only

There, spring lambs jam the sheepfold. In air Stilled, silvered as water in a glass Nothing is big or far. The small shrew chitters from its

The black bull bellowed before the sea. The sea, till that day orderly, Hove up against Bendylaw. The queen in the mulberry arbor stared Stiff

Open-mouthed, the baby god Immense, bald, though baby-headed, Cried out for the mother\'s dug. The dry volcanoes cracked and split, Sand

1 The day she visited the dissecting room They had four men laid out, black as burnt turkey, Already half unstrung. A vinegary fume Of the death

Unlucky the hero born In this province of the stuck record Where the most watchful cooks go jobless And the mayor\'s rotisserie turns Round of

Two virtues ride, by stallion, by nag, To grind our knives and scissors: Lantern-jawed Reason, squat Common Sense, One courting doctors of all