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
Without stop those greased machines,
Tending, without stop, the blunt
Indefatigable fact.

Clicca qui per la versione in Italiano!

Share this Post

1 Comment

  1. Pingback: Turno di Notte, Sylvia Plath - "Borne back ceaselessly into the past."

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

*
*