The Munich Mannequins (Sylvia Plath Poems)
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children. Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb Where the yew trees blow ...
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children. Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb Where the yew trees blow ...
What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful? It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it ...
I have no wit, I have no words, no tears; My heart within me like a stone Is numbed too ...
Axes After whose stroke the wood rings, And the echoes! Echoes traveling Off from the center like horses. The sap ...
Viciousness in the kitchen! The potatoes hiss. It is all Hollywood, windowless, The fluorescent light wincing on and off like ...
The night is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, ...
The horizons ring me like faggots, Tilted and disparate, and always unstable. Touched by a match, they might warm me, ...
A Poem for Three Voices Setting: A Maternity Ward and round about FIRST VOICE: I am slow as the world. ...
This is winter, this is night, small love -- A sort of black horsehair, A rough, dumb country stuff Steeled ...
In the rectory garden on his evening walk Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold day, a sodden one it was ...
It happens. Will it go on? ---- My mind a rock, No fingers to grip, no tongue, My god the ...
From my rented attic with no earth To call my own except the air-motes, I malign the leaden perspective Of ...
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