Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath Poems

  • 51.  
    The abstracts hover like dull angels:
    Nothing so vulgar as a nose or an eye Bossing the ethereal blanks of their face-ovals.
  • 52.  
    Now we, returning from the vaulted domes
    Of our colossal sleep, come home to find A tall metropolis of catacombs
  • 53.  
    I am sending back the key
    that let me into bluebeard's study; because he would make love to me
  • 54.  
    This is the city where men are mended.
    I lie on a great anvil. The flat blue sky-circle
  • 55.  
    I made a fire; being tired
    Of the white fists of old Letters and their death rattle
  • 56.  
    I've got a stubborn goose whose gut's
    Honeycombed with golden eggs, Yet won't lay one.
  • 57.  
    Now coldness comes sifting down, layer after layer,
    To our bower at the lily root. Overhead the old umbrellas of summer
  • 58.  
    Riding home from credulous blue domes,
    the dreamer reins his waking appetite in panic at the crop of catacombs
  • 59.  
    The fountains are dry and the roses over.
    Incense of death. Your day approaches. The pears fatten like little buddhas.
  • 60.  
    'Tea leaves I've given up,
    And that crooked line On the queen's palm
  • 61.  
    Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear;
    The wheels revolve, the universe keeps running. (Proud you halt upon the spiral stair.)
  • 62.  
    Flintlike, her feet struck
    Such a racket of echoes from the steely street, Tacking in moon-blued crooks from the black
  • 63.  
    I walked the unwalked garden of rose-beds
    In the public park; at home felt the want Of a single rose present to imagine
  • 64.  
    Or, cette jeune fille pointilleuse
    Lors d'une cérémonieuse promenade en avril Avec son dernier soupirant
  • 65.  
    Outlandish as a circus, the ravaged face
    Parades the marketplace, lurid and stricken By some unutterable chagrin,
  • 66.  
    Enter the chilly no-man's land of about
    Five o'clock in the morning, the no-color void Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot
  • 67.  
    The telegram says you have gone away
    And left our bankrupt circus on its own; There is nothing more for me to say.
  • 68.  
    Meadows of gold dust. The silver
    Currents of the Connecticut fan And meander in bland pleatings under
  • 69.  
    Once I was ordinary:
    Sat by my father's bean tree Eating the fingers of wisdom.
  • 70.  
    No map traces the street
    Where those two sleepers are. We have lost track of it.
  • 71.  
    The courage of the shut mouth, in spite of artillery!
    The line pink and quiet, a worm, basking. There are black disks behind it, the disks of outrage,
  • 72.  
    It is a chilly god, a god of shades,
    Rises to the glass from his black fathoms. At the window, those unborn, those undone
  • 73.  
    Grub-white mulberries redden among leaves.
    I'll go out and sit in white like they do, Doing nothing. July's juice rounds their nubs.
  • 74.  
    All day she plays at chess with the bones of the world:
    Favored (while suddenly the rains begin Beyond the window) she lies on cushions curled
  • 75.  
    In Alicante they bowl the barrels
    Bumblingly over the nubs of the cobbles Past the yellow-paella eateries,
  • 76.  
    The nose-end that twitches, the old imperfectionsâ??-
    Tolerable now as moles on the face Put up with until chagrin gives place
  • 77.  
    This was the land's end: the last fingers, knuckled and rheumatic,
    Cramped on nothing. Black Admonitory cliffs, and the sea exploding
  • 78.  
    This is not what I meant:
    Stucco arches, the banked rocks sunning in rows, Bald eyes or petrified eggs,
  • 79.  
    1
    They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two Moles dead in the pebbled rut,
  • 80.  
    Sky and sea, horizon-hinged
    Tablets of blank blue, couldn't, Clapped shut, flatten this man out.
  • 81.  
    Open-mouthed, the baby god
    Immense, bald, though baby-headed, Cried out for the mother's dug.
  • 82.  
    No use, no use, now, begging Recognize!
    There is nothing to do with such a beautiful blank but smooth it. Name, house, car keys,
  • 83.  
    By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.
    I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.
  • 84.  
    What was she doing when it blew in
    Over the seven hills, the red furrow, the blue mountain? Was she arranging cups? It is important.
  • 85.  
    When night comes black
    Such royal dreams beckon this man As lift him apart
  • 86.  
    Irrefutable, beautifully smug
    As Venus, pedestalled on a half-shell Shawled in blond hair and the salt
  • 87.  
    First frost, and I walk among the rose-fruit, the marble toes
    Of the Greek beauties you brought Off Europe's relic heap
  • 88.  
    Arena dust rusted by four bulls' blood to a dull redness,
    The afternoon at a bad end under the crowd's truculence, The ritual death each time botched among dropped capes, ill-judged
  • 89.  
    The womb
    Rattles its pod, the moon Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.
  • 90.  
    This man makes a pseudonym
    And crawls behind it like a worm.
  • 91.  
    Sing praise for statuary:
    For those anchored attitudes And staunch stone eyes that stare
  • 92.  
    The month of flowering's finished. The fruit's in,
    Eaten or rotten. I am all mouth. October's the month for storage.
  • 93.  
    The sting of bees took away my father
    who walked in a swarming shroud of wings and scorned the tick of the falling weather.
  • 94.  
    My love for you is more
    athletic than a verb, Agile as a star
  • 95.  
    Soliloquy Of The Solipsist
    I? I walk alone;
  • 96.  
    You said you would kill it this morning.
    Do not kill it. It startles me still, The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing
  • 97.  
    This wood burns a dark
    Incense. Pale moss drips In elbow-scarves, beards
  • 98.  
    At this wharf there are no grand landings to speak of.
    Red and orange barges list and blister Shackled to the dock, outmoded, gaudy,
  • 99.  
    Worship this world of watercolor mood
    in glass pagodas hung with veils of green where diamonds jangle hymns within the blood
  • 100.  
    I'm through with this grand looking-glass hotel
    where adjectives play croquet with flamingo nouns; methinks I shall absent me for a while
Total 125 poems written by Sylvia Plath

Poem of the day

Martial, Lib. I, Epig. I.
 by George Gordon Byron

'Hic est, quem legis, ille, quern requiris, Tota notus in orbe Martialis,' &c.


He unto whom thou art so partial,
Oh, reader is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living,
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving;
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it--
...

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