Sylvia Plath Poems
The abstracts hover like dull angels:
Nothing so vulgar as a nose or an eye
Bossing the ethereal blanks of their face-ovals.
Doom Of Exiles
Now we, returning from the vaulted domes
Of our colossal sleep, come home to find
A tall metropolis of catacombs
I am sending back the key
that let me into bluebeard's study;
because he would make love to me
This is the city where men are mended.
I lie on a great anvil.
The flat blue sky-circle
Burning The Letters
I made a fire; being tired
Of the white fists of old
Letters and their death rattle
I've got a stubborn goose whose gut's
Honeycombed with golden eggs,
Yet won't lay one.
Flute Notes From A Reedy Pond
Now coldness comes sifting down, layer after layer,
To our bower at the lily root.
Overhead the old umbrellas of summer
Riding home from credulous blue domes,
the dreamer reins his waking appetite
in panic at the crop of catacombs
The Manor Garden
The fountains are dry and the roses over.
Incense of death. Your day approaches.
The pears fatten like little buddhas.
'Tea leaves I've given up,
And that crooked line
On the queen's palm
To Eva Descending The Stair
Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear;
The wheels revolve, the universe keeps running.
(Proud you halt upon the spiral stair.)
Flintlike, her feet struck
Such a racket of echoes from the steely street,
Tacking in moon-blued crooks from the black
Fable Of The Rhododendron Stealers
I walked the unwalked garden of rose-beds
In the public park; at home felt the want
Of a single rose present to imagine
Or, cette jeune fille pointilleuse
Lors d'une cÃ©rÃ©monieuse promenade en avril
Avec son dernier soupirant
The Ravaged Face
Outlandish as a circus, the ravaged face
Parades the marketplace, lurid and stricken
By some unutterable chagrin,
The Ghost's Leavetaking
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
The telegram says you have gone away
And left our bankrupt circus on its own;
There is nothing more for me to say.
In Midas' Country
Meadows of gold dust. The silver
Currents of the Connecticut fan
And meander in bland pleatings under
Once I was ordinary:
Sat by my father's bean tree
Eating the fingers of wisdom.
No map traces the street
Where those two sleepers are.
We have lost track of it.
The Courage Of Shutting-Up
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,
It is a chilly god, a god of shades,
Rises to the glass from his black fathoms.
At the window, those unborn, those undone
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.
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
In Alicante they bowl the barrels
Bumblingly over the nubs of the cobbles
Past the yellow-paella eateries,
The Companionable Ills
The nose-end that twitches, the old imperfectionsâ??-
Tolerable now as moles on the face
Put up with until chagrin gives place
This was the land's end: the last fingers, knuckled and rheumatic,
Cramped on nothing. Black
Admonitory cliffs, and the sea exploding
This is not what I meant:
Stucco arches, the banked rocks sunning in rows,
Bald eyes or petrified eggs,
They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two
Moles dead in the pebbled rut,
The Hermit At Outermost House
Sky and sea, horizon-hinged
Tablets of blank blue, couldn't,
Clapped shut, flatten this man out.
I Want, I Want
Open-mouthed, the baby god
Immense, bald, though baby-headed,
Cried out for the mother's dug.
No use, no use, now, begging Recognize!
There is nothing to do with such a beautiful blank but smooth it.
Name, house, car keys,
The Hanging Man
By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.
I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.
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.
When night comes black
Such royal dreams beckon this man
As lift him apart
Irrefutable, beautifully smug
As Venus, pedestalled on a half-shell
Shawled in blond hair and the salt
First frost, and I walk among the rose-fruit, the marble toes
Of the Greek beauties you brought
Off Europe's relic heap
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
Rattles its pod, the moon
Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.
This man makes a pseudonym
And crawls behind it like a worm.
Sing praise for statuary:
For those anchored attitudes
And staunch stone eyes that stare
The month of flowering's finished. The fruit's in,
Eaten or rotten. I am all mouth.
October's the month for storage.
The sting of bees took away my father
who walked in a swarming shroud of wings
and scorned the tick of the falling weather.
My love for you is more
athletic than a verb,
Agile as a star
Soliloquy Of The Solipsist
Soliloquy Of The Solipsist
I walk alone;
You said you would kill it this morning.
Do not kill it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing
Dark Wood, Dark Water
This wood burns a dark
Incense. Pale moss drips
In elbow-scarves, beards
A Winter Ship
At this wharf there are no grand landings to speak of.
Red and orange barges list and blister
Shackled to the dock, outmoded, gaudy,
Worship this world of watercolor mood
in glass pagodas hung with veils of green
where diamonds jangle hymns within the blood
A Sorcerer Bids Farewell To Seem
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
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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