Poems Inspired by Sylvia Plath
#SylviaPlath
Poems inspired by Sylvia Plath. Here you'll find poetry using the style, themes or characters found in poems and short stories by Sylvia Plath. Along with poems about Plath herself, including praise, criticism and memorials.
PAR
Poem Published
17th Jul 2024 1:36pm
17th Jul 2024 1:36pm
Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath (1932 –1963)
I have done it again.
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
A paperweight,
Peel off the napkin
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
Soon, soon the flesh
And I a smiling woman.
This is Number Three.
What a million filaments.
Them unwrap me hand and foot—
These are my hands
My knees.
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything...
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
A paperweight,
Peel off the napkin
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
Soon, soon the flesh
And I a smiling woman.
This is Number Three.
What a million filaments.
Them unwrap me hand and foot—
These are my hands
My knees.
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything...
#death
#love
#mirror
#SylviaPlath
#WritingPoetry
126 reads
6 Comments
Alan-S-Jeeves
Poem Published
23rd Nov 2021 00:18am
23rd Nov 2021 00:18am
The Poetess Of Heptonstall
This high, half-hidden, churchyard
Where coldness and rain find a home
And the nightfall is welcomed at twilight's end.
The lament of the deafened, defining the dusk,
And complecting its blanket, a chilled shielding shroud ~
A poet lies sleeping alone in her cot.
But verses are silently wrested away
Brilliantly noiseless not rhyming nor free:
And how the wind whistles here all about.
Then, strangely, disturbing the shadowless eve
A voice, a beseeching, may softly be heard.
O' Sylvia, Sylvia, why for art thou here?
Where coldness and rain find a home
And the nightfall is welcomed at twilight's end.
The lament of the deafened, defining the dusk,
And complecting its blanket, a chilled shielding shroud ~
A poet lies sleeping alone in her cot.
But verses are silently wrested away
Brilliantly noiseless not rhyming nor free:
And how the wind whistles here all about.
Then, strangely, disturbing the shadowless eve
A voice, a beseeching, may softly be heard.
O' Sylvia, Sylvia, why for art thou here?
#SylviaPlath
368 reads
3 Comments
Shinobi
Poem Published
30th Oct 2021 5:10am
30th Oct 2021 5:10am
A Gothic Poem
man made rust, and diamond dust
broken vessels of the arcane
spell spoken from ruby lips
rhyming like a poetic refrain
how my pulse races...
haunted remnants of the wilting rose
blows through argent winds
scarlet sunburst, crimson petals
electric blue avenues, welcoming
the highway man's smoking barrel
the colors snap poloroids...
I'm not sub-human
my roots are buried deep
as the moon dangles wafer-thin
and the river calls to me
coiling on the forest floor
there is a...
broken vessels of the arcane
spell spoken from ruby lips
rhyming like a poetic refrain
how my pulse races...
haunted remnants of the wilting rose
blows through argent winds
scarlet sunburst, crimson petals
electric blue avenues, welcoming
the highway man's smoking barrel
the colors snap poloroids...
I'm not sub-human
my roots are buried deep
as the moon dangles wafer-thin
and the river calls to me
coiling on the forest floor
there is a...
#SylviaPlath
#sensual
#witches
#symbolism
#fear
592 reads
1 Comment
Shinobi
Poem Published
26th Sep 2021 12:31pm
26th Sep 2021 12:31pm
Mummy Dust
There will be hell to pay!"
I heard him shout out
shaking the rafters so...
dust drifted down
into my gaping mouth
the taste of old whiskey
as avarice
greets my dry tongue
like scorched flesh
standing to close to fire
"There will be hell to pay!"
blackbirds sing from their pulpits
craved oak benches giving me splinters
whilst I lull my days in the chapel
those scriptures that they speak
becomes gibberish in my ears
mummy dust settles,from the trestle
drifts...
I heard him shout out
shaking the rafters so...
dust drifted down
into my gaping mouth
the taste of old whiskey
as avarice
greets my dry tongue
like scorched flesh
standing to close to fire
"There will be hell to pay!"
blackbirds sing from their pulpits
craved oak benches giving me splinters
whilst I lull my days in the chapel
those scriptures that they speak
becomes gibberish in my ears
mummy dust settles,from the trestle
drifts...
#politics
#America
#FreeVerse
#SylviaPlath
#symbolism
373 reads
0 Comments
AlisVolatPropriis8
Poem Published
25th May 2020 4:10pm
25th May 2020 4:10pm
Curiosity created everything.
A world a place to live
Sipping a tea Bruce told his
Mother.The night was silent
On the blue moon and
Everything for a while a
calm and the perch of window
Was open to the birds of green
And the blue sky rose up the garden
Of the blossom beloved in the hourly
Night of the skin of the sky.her tale was
In the mark of the days where forlorn wind of night where sea was full of
Moon in the basket,she fall asleep
On the desk to say a night's pale flowers
Where the mirror was black
And the ocean was full
Of it
The...
Sipping a tea Bruce told his
Mother.The night was silent
On the blue moon and
Everything for a while a
calm and the perch of window
Was open to the birds of green
And the blue sky rose up the garden
Of the blossom beloved in the hourly
Night of the skin of the sky.her tale was
In the mark of the days where forlorn wind of night where sea was full of
Moon in the basket,she fall asleep
On the desk to say a night's pale flowers
Where the mirror was black
And the ocean was full
Of it
The...
#SylviaPlath
415 reads
1 Comment
Ahavati
Tams
Tams
Poem Published
20th Jan 2020 10:16pm
20th Jan 2020 10:16pm
I need to write a f**king poem
not a Captain Obvious
pirating La Santa Poetica;
but, a substantial armament
potent enough to shift
oceanic plates of belief
into something rabid
—a bottom prowler
foaming at the mouth—
hooked on the taste of poem
The blood jet is poetry
and there is no stopping it
because once infected
you're owned
~
pirating La Santa Poetica;
but, a substantial armament
potent enough to shift
oceanic plates of belief
into something rabid
—a bottom prowler
foaming at the mouth—
hooked on the taste of poem
The blood jet is poetry
and there is no stopping it
because once infected
you're owned
~
#identity
#SylviaPlath
#LifeAsAWriter #WritingPoetry
#LifeAsAWriter #WritingPoetry
1131 reads
34 Comments
Heaven_sent_Kathy
Poem Published
2nd Aug 2019 00:54am
2nd Aug 2019 00:54am
Girlfriends
( after Anne Sexton )
‘Death’, sounds almost tender
and childlike when I say the name,
rhyming as it does with ‘breath’,
A life force unlike, lesser the end,
when a door is pried open
with a common kitchen utensil.
I didn’t pay attention and failed,
leaving me to salvage
Plath’s words before her last,
When we’d speak of it many times,
as fireflies, like girlfriends,
sending up smoke rings to be the first.
Now I jealously guard the rite
while I still have life and a history,
and can...
‘Death’, sounds almost tender
and childlike when I say the name,
rhyming as it does with ‘breath’,
A life force unlike, lesser the end,
when a door is pried open
with a common kitchen utensil.
I didn’t pay attention and failed,
leaving me to salvage
Plath’s words before her last,
When we’d speak of it many times,
as fireflies, like girlfriends,
sending up smoke rings to be the first.
Now I jealously guard the rite
while I still have life and a history,
and can...
#suicide
#fate
#SylviaPlath #AnneSexton
#SylviaPlath #AnneSexton
899 reads
5 Comments
Ahavati
Tams
Tams
Poem Published
11th May 2019 11:56pm
11th May 2019 11:56pm
A Quintuple of Poets: Part I
Sylvia Plath in 18th Century Romania
could not read nor write-
wasn't a poet;
but, worked the farm instead;
sold livestock: chickens
cows, also pigs-
consoled each animal
before they were marketed
for slaughter
Her lips tasted like feathers
salt, and cold-blooded fish
because she kissed them deeply
upon departure;
or, so it's mongered -
No one ever really got close enough
to personally confirm
~
could not read nor write-
wasn't a poet;
but, worked the farm instead;
sold livestock: chickens
cows, also pigs-
consoled each animal
before they were marketed
for slaughter
Her lips tasted like feathers
salt, and cold-blooded fish
because she kissed them deeply
upon departure;
or, so it's mongered -
No one ever really got close enough
to personally confirm
~
#SylviaPlath
#LifeAsAWriter
#WritingPoetry
958 reads
14 Comments
PoetsRevenge
Poem Published
14th Feb 2019 10:41pm
14th Feb 2019 10:41pm
Her Love Is A Madness
I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.’
-Sylvia Plath
When did I become mad,
the day I began loving you,
singing in my head how we
are one instead of two
Or crashing ashore in winters wrath,
rockweed wringing hands around
granite boulders moved only in storms
at highest peaks of existence
where you were there, only you and I
and the fullest moon ---
A lunacy!
Did you ever envision me
that I might...
But I grow old and I forget your name.’
-Sylvia Plath
When did I become mad,
the day I began loving you,
singing in my head how we
are one instead of two
Or crashing ashore in winters wrath,
rockweed wringing hands around
granite boulders moved only in storms
at highest peaks of existence
where you were there, only you and I
and the fullest moon ---
A lunacy!
Did you ever envision me
that I might...
#love
#sea
#beach #SylviaPlath
#beach #SylviaPlath
839 reads
9 Comments
yelluw_always
Poem Published
10th Feb 2019 3:44am
10th Feb 2019 3:44am
one weekend
she splashes
across my chest,
arrests
the beautiful flower,
picks a one
of the many
disfavored,
it opens to
finality,
can not can not can not i
breathe
over her life,
it’s always that
hue, sudden,
as if retching-
as if she the cliffs of Monaco-
gild crag Moon cloak,
her favored
goddess or nag
turns her back
once a month,
then a last slit
of blueless London,
i cannot cannot cannot
fit the...
across my chest,
arrests
the beautiful flower,
picks a one
of the many
disfavored,
it opens to
finality,
can not can not can not i
breathe
over her life,
it’s always that
hue, sudden,
as if retching-
as if she the cliffs of Monaco-
gild crag Moon cloak,
her favored
goddess or nag
turns her back
once a month,
then a last slit
of blueless London,
i cannot cannot cannot
fit the...
#SylviaPlath
21 reads
8 Comments
PoetsRevenge
Poem Published
20th Nov 2018 2:03am
20th Nov 2018 2:03am
Cemetary Walk In November
This is what it is to be complete,
it is horrible.’
-Sylvia Plath
Kicking through leaves
the whitened stones unannounce themselves
to rushing air, quiet, unreckoned,
pandering to a deceased moment
which endlessly repeats its
howling, repentant song.
I am never coming back, it says,
who would, not here, not ever.
Underfoot I notice trampled clothes
and a belt, an opened packet of something,
a whiskey bottle freezes gradually to
the patchy ground.
How unholy, lifes...
it is horrible.’
-Sylvia Plath
Kicking through leaves
the whitened stones unannounce themselves
to rushing air, quiet, unreckoned,
pandering to a deceased moment
which endlessly repeats its
howling, repentant song.
I am never coming back, it says,
who would, not here, not ever.
Underfoot I notice trampled clothes
and a belt, an opened packet of something,
a whiskey bottle freezes gradually to
the patchy ground.
How unholy, lifes...
#fall
#memorial
#graveyard #SylviaPlath
#graveyard #SylviaPlath
803 reads
11 Comments
george4man2box
Poem Published
30th Jun 2018 1:07am
30th Jun 2018 1:07am
Godot Paid Me A Visit...
While constipation kept me in arrears,
asper daily writing,
thus ordinarily straight forward
practiced process culling material,
(a daily endeavor generally mastered
by your truly), this moment bares
with more difficulty, thus derriere's
functionality created backlog
(of personal business),
hence presenting literary chops,
a real bummer today,
disgruntlement with Fanny Pack,
(which gripe flares
cheeks) pitted me considerably
behind schedule, so...here's
the scoop...
asper daily writing,
thus ordinarily straight forward
practiced process culling material,
(a daily endeavor generally mastered
by your truly), this moment bares
with more difficulty, thus derriere's
functionality created backlog
(of personal business),
hence presenting literary chops,
a real bummer today,
disgruntlement with Fanny Pack,
(which gripe flares
cheeks) pitted me considerably
behind schedule, so...here's
the scoop...
#women
#men
#friendship
#SylviaPlath
#CharlesBukowski
503 reads
0 Comments
DU Poetry : Poems Inspired by Sylvia Plath
#SylviaPlath is curated by Ahavati (Tams).
