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

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Beowulf (Episode 07)
 by Anonymous Olde English

HROTHGAR spake, the Scyldings'-helmet: --
"For fight defensive, Friend my Beowulf,
to succor and save, thou hast sought us here.
Thy father's combat a feud enkindled
when Heatholaf with hand he slew
among the Wylfings; his Weder kin
for horror of fighting feared to hold him.
Fleeing, he sought our South-Dane folk,
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