Sylvia Plath Poems (121 Poems)
Death & Co. (Sylvia Plath Poems)
Two, of course there are two. It seems perfectly natural now– The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded And balled¸ like Blake’s. Who exhibits The birthmarks that are his trademark– The scald scar of water, The nude … Continue reading
Getting There (Sylvia Plath Poems)
How far is it? How far is it now? The gigantic gorilla interior Of the wheels move, they appall me — The terrible brains Of Krupp, black muzzles Revolving, the sound Punching out Absence! Like cannon. It is Russia I … Continue reading
Jilted (Sylvia Plath Poems)
My thoughts are crabbed and sallow, My tears like vinegar, Or the bitter blinking yellow Of an acetic star. Tonight the caustic wind, love, Gossips late and soon, And I wear the wry-faced pucker of The sour lemon moon. While … Continue reading
On Looking Into The Eyes Of A Demon Lover (Sylvia Plath Poems)
Here are two pupils whose moons of black transform to cripples all who look: each lovely lady who peers inside take on the body of a toad. Within these mirrors the world inverts: the fond admirer’s burning darts turn back … Continue reading
Vanity Fair (Sylvia Plath Poems)
Through frost-thick weather This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if Caught in a hazardous medium that might Merely by its continuing Attach her to heaven. At eye’s envious corner Crow’s-feet copy veining on a stained leaf; Cold squint steals sky’s … Continue reading
Balloons (Sylvia Plath Poems)
Since Christmas they have lived with us, Guileless and clear, Oval soul-animals, Taking up half the space, Moving and rubbing on the silk Invisible air drifts, Giving a shriek and pop When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling. Yellow … Continue reading
The Applicant (Sylvia Plath Poems)
First, are you our sort of a person? Do you wear A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch, A brace or a hook, Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch, Stitches to show something’s missing? No, no? Then How can … Continue reading
Mary’s Song (Sylvia Plath Poems)
The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat. The fat Sacrifices its opacity. . . . A window, holy gold. The fire makes it precious, The same fire Melting the tallow heretics, Ousting the Jews. Their thick palls float Over the … Continue reading
Stillborn (Sylvia Plath Poems)
These poems do not live: it’s a sad diagnosis. They grew their toes and fingers well enough, Their little foreheads bulged with concentration. If they missed out on walking about like people It wasn’t for any lack of mother-love. O … Continue reading
Insomniac (Sylvia Plath Poems)
The night is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole after peephole – A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things. Under the eyes of the stars and the … Continue reading
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