The Everlasting Monday, Sylvia Plath

The Everlasting Monday, Sylvia Plath

Thou shalt have an everlasting Monday and stand in the moon. The moon’s man stands in his shell, Bent under a bundle Of sticks. The light falls chalk and cold Upon our bedspread. His teeth are chattering among the leprous Peak and craters of those extinct volcanoes. He also against black frost Would pick sticks, would not rest Until hos own lit room outshone

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Faun, Sylvia Plath

Faun, Sylvia Plath

Haunched like a faun, he hooed From grove of moon-glint and fen-frost Until all owls in the twigged forest Flapped black to look and brood On the call this man made. No sound but a drunken coot Lurching home along river bank. Stars hung water-sunk, so a rank Of double star-eyes lit Boughs where those owls sat. An arena of yellow eyes Watched the

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Letter to a purist, Sylvia Plath

Letter to a purist, Sylvia Plath

That grandiose colossus who Stood astride The 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, who With one foot Caught (as it were) in the muck-trap Of skin and bone, Dithers with the other way out In preposterous provinces of the madcap Cloud-cuckoo, Agawp at the

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Night Shift, Sylvia Plath

Night Shift, Sylvia Plath

It was not a heart, beating. That muted boom, that clangor Far off, not blood in the ears Drumming up any fever To impose on the evening. The noise came from outside; A metal detonating Native, evidently, to These stilled suburbs: nobody Startled at it, though the sound Shook the ground with its pounding. It took root at my coming Till the thudding source,

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Aftermath, Sylvia Plath

Aftermath, Sylvia Plath

Compelled by calamity’s magnet They loiter and stare as if the house Burnt-out weretheirs, or as if they thought Some scandal might any minute ooze From a smoke-choked closet into light; No deaths, no prodigious injuries Glut these hunters after an old meat, Blood-spoor of the austere tragedies. Mother Medea in a green smock Moves humbly as any housewife through Her ruined apartments, taking

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Heavy Women, Sylvia Plath

Heavy Women, Sylvia Plath

Irrefutable, beautifully smug As Venus, pedestaled on a half-shell Shawled in blond hair and the salt Scrim of a sea breeze, the women Settle in their belling dresses. Over each weighty stomach a face Floats calm as a moon or a cloud. Smiling to themselves, they meditate Devoutly as the Dutch bulb Forming its twenty petals. The dark still nurses its secret. On the

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Tulips, Sylvia Plath

Tulips, Sylvia Plath

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the

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Lady Lazarus, Sylvia Plath

Lady Lazarus, Sylvia Plath

I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?— The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a

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