By Candlelight |
This is winter, this is night, small love ---A sort of black horsehair,A rough, dumb country stuffSteeled with the sheenOf what green stars can make it to our gate.I hold you in my arm.It is very late... Posted by Sylvia Plath on Thu, 15 Mar 2007 02:08:00 PST |
Insomniac |
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... Posted by Sylvia Plath on Wed, 17 Jan 2007 06:21:00 PST |
Alicante Lullaby |
In Alicante they bowl the barrelsBumblingly over the nubs of the cobblesPast the yellow-paella eateries,Below the ramshackle back-alley balconies,While the cocks and hensIn the roofgardensScuttle repo... Posted by Sylvia Plath on Mon, 01 Jan 2007 01:33:00 PST |
A letter to a Purist |
That grandiose colossus whoStood astrideThe envious assaults of sea(Essaying, wave by wave,Tide by tide,To undo him, perpetually),Has nothing on you,O my love,O my great idiot, whoWith one footCaught ... Posted by Sylvia Plath on Mon, 01 Jan 2007 01:32:00 PST |
Sonnet to Satan |
In darkroom of your eye the moonly mindsomeraults to couterfeit eclipse;bright angels black out over logic's landunder shutter of their handicaps.
Commanding that corkscrew comet jet forth inkto pitc... Posted by Sylvia Plath on Sun, 24 Dec 2006 02:38:00 PST |
Lament |
A Villanelle
The sting of bees took away my fatherwho walked in a swarming shroud of wingsand scorned the tick of the falling weather.
Lightning licked in a yellow latherbut missed the mark with sna... Posted by Sylvia Plath on Sun, 24 Dec 2006 02:37:00 PST |
Doomsday |
The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leansAtop the broken universal clock:The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.Out painted stages fall apart by scenesWhile all the actors halt in mortal shock:The i... Posted by Sylvia Plath on Sun, 24 Dec 2006 02:34:00 PST |
Elm |
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there. Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothi... Posted by Sylvia Plath on Tue, 19 Dec 2006 12:10:00 PST |
The Moon and the Yew Tree |
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God Prickling my ankles and murmuring of t... Posted by Sylvia Plath on Tue, 19 Dec 2006 10:59:00 PST |
Words |
Axes After whose stroke the wood rings, And the echoes! Echoes traveling Off from the center like horses. The sap Wells like tears, like the Water striving To re-establish its mirror Over the rock Tha... Posted by Sylvia Plath on Tue, 19 Dec 2006 10:57:00 PST |