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
Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call. — Sylvia Plath, from “Lady Lazarus,” Collected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1992)
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)
Small as a doll in my dress of innocence I lay dreaming your epic, image by image. — Sylvia Plath, from “Electra on Azalea Path,” The Collected Poems. (Harper Perennial Modern Classics; Reprint edition September 2, 2008)
The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence. – Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar. (Harper Perennial Modern Classics June 11, 2013) Originally published January 14th 1963.
Wintering This is the easy time, there is nothing doing. I have whirled the midwife’s extractor, I have my honey, Six jars of it, Six cat’s eyes in the wine cellar, Wintering in a dark without window At the heart of the house Next to the last tenant’s rancid jam and the bottles of… Continue reading Sylvia Plath
Winter is for women — The woman, still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think. Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas Succeed in banking their fires To enter another year? What will they taste of, the Christmas roses? The bees… Continue reading Sylvia Plath