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 impeccable moon. Clicca qui per la versione in Italiano!

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, exposed, Confounded inept guesswork: Framed in windows of Main Street’s Silver factory, immense Hammers hoisted, wheels turning, Stalled, let fall their vertical Tonnage of metal and wood; Stunned the marrow. Men in white Undershirts circled, tending

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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 stock Of charred shoes, the sodden upholstery: Cheated of the pyre and the rack, The crowd sucks her last tear and turns away. Clicca qui per la versione in Italiano!

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 green hill, under the thorn trees, They listen for the millennium, The knock of the small, new heart. Pink-buttocked infants attend them. Looping wool, doing nothing in particular, They step among the archetypes. Dusk hoods them

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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 anesthetist and my body to surgeons.   They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything

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