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Sylvia Plath

Better that every fiber crack and fury make head, blood drenching vivid couch, carpet, floor and the snake-figured almanac vouching you are a million green counties from here, than to sit mute, twitching so under prickling stars, with stare, with curse blackening the time goodbyes were said, trains let go, and I, great magnanimous fool,… Continue reading Sylvia Plath

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Excerpt · Fragment · Modernism · Poetry · Villanelle

Sylvia Plath

I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.) ― Sylvia Plath, from “Mad Girl’s Love Song.” Generally included in the biographical note appended to The Bell Jar. (Harper… Continue reading Sylvia Plath

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Excerpt · Modernism · Passage · Poetry

Sylvia Plath

And I slept on like a bent finger. The first thing I saw was sheer air And the locked drops rising in a dew Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay Dense and expressionless round about. I didn’t know what to make of it. I shone, mica-scaled, and unfolded To pour myself out like a fluid… Continue reading Sylvia Plath

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Excerpt · Fragment · Modernism · Passage · Poetry

Sylvia Plath

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way. Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains, the diaphanous satins of a January window white as babies’ bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory! — Sylvia Plath, from “A Birthday Present,” Ariel. (Harper & Row 1966)

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