Poems on Sylvia Plath Seeking Honest Critique
#SylviaPlath
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
145 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
386 reads
3 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
422 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
1155 reads
34 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
967 reads
14 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
Ahavati
Tams
Tams
Poem Published
15th Jan 2017 11:26pm
15th Jan 2017 11:26pm
Sacred Contracts XXXIII: 'Dead Poet's Society'*
I
I’ve spent too much time
away from their Holy grounds;
their imagery and metaphors –
ones that molded my belief
through fine point verse
not needing to be understood
to be absolute truth.
Sometimes it’s difficult to grant the dead
an audience when the living demand
every moment you have to give; ...
I’ve spent too much time
away from their Holy grounds;
their imagery and metaphors –
ones that molded my belief
through fine point verse
not needing to be understood
to be absolute truth.
Sometimes it’s difficult to grant the dead
an audience when the living demand
every moment you have to give; ...
#love
#books
#SylviaPlath
1387 reads
23 Comments
Ahavati
Tams
Tams
Poem Published
14th Jul 2016 9:25pm
14th Jul 2016 9:25pm
You must know
You must know there are times
I will not choose you over the poem;
nor your email, text or pouting silence
over the verse;
Bulging zippers will not sway me
nor swollen suitcases by the entrance.
If you want to be first in someone’s life
you must know, it can never be mine.
I'll never be the faithful wife
skinning vegetables at the sink;
a gimlet eye’d grandmother supervising,
starched apron and recipe splayed
submissively across the counter -
contents spooned carefully;
the roast, flayed,...
I will not choose you over the poem;
nor your email, text or pouting silence
over the verse;
Bulging zippers will not sway me
nor swollen suitcases by the entrance.
If you want to be first in someone’s life
you must know, it can never be mine.
I'll never be the faithful wife
skinning vegetables at the sink;
a gimlet eye’d grandmother supervising,
starched apron and recipe splayed
submissively across the counter -
contents spooned carefully;
the roast, flayed,...
#SylviaPlath
#WilliamShakespeare
#confessional
#LifeAsAWriter
#PabloNeruda
2182 reads
54 Comments
AnnaKissedMe
Poem Published
7th Jun 2016 11:52pm
7th Jun 2016 11:52pm
Before I go mad...
Where are the vicera the hearts
the gasping souls struggling for breath?
there's not been enough letting out
of trapped fears and imaginings
not even whimperings but only
the steady drip of routine's repetition
a dull hum composed of what's comfort
I won't say soporific but there it is.
I need to read Plath
before
I go mad...
the gasping souls struggling for breath?
there's not been enough letting out
of trapped fears and imaginings
not even whimperings but only
the steady drip of routine's repetition
a dull hum composed of what's comfort
I won't say soporific but there it is.
I need to read Plath
before
I go mad...
#SylviaPlath
#FeelingTrapped
#boredom
636 reads
4 Comments
Page_Writer
Mad Girl
Mad Girl
Poem Published
17th Jun 2013 8:37pm
17th Jun 2013 8:37pm
Lady Lazarus and Her Advice
I put down the book.
My second time reading it.
It's blue cover, with the picture of legs and older shoes.
Probably brand new when the book was written.
The pink letters of the author's name.
The white letters of the book's title.
I smile down at it.
And get up quietly, trying not to wake my boyfriend.
That lay next to me.
I place it on my shelve.
Along with all my other books by and about this wonderful woman.
I smile thinking of how I'm so happy.
For Esther to get out of the asylum.
She's going to have such a good life now.
I think...
My second time reading it.
It's blue cover, with the picture of legs and older shoes.
Probably brand new when the book was written.
The pink letters of the author's name.
The white letters of the book's title.
I smile down at it.
And get up quietly, trying not to wake my boyfriend.
That lay next to me.
I place it on my shelve.
Along with all my other books by and about this wonderful woman.
I smile thinking of how I'm so happy.
For Esther to get out of the asylum.
She's going to have such a good life now.
I think...
#books
#SylviaPlath
#MyInspiration #memorial
#MyInspiration #memorial
799 reads
0 Comments
blackdahlia__
belladonna
belladonna
Poem Published
22nd Oct 2012 4:47am
22nd Oct 2012 4:47am
Stripping Down in Verses: The Art of Baring the Truth (or Lies) on the Page
That man in a slick olive green polo-shirt is looking right at you, and you think it’s good, it’s a good sign, since all you want to do is to hop on that man’s lap and crumple his collar against your grasp. While doing so, you should notice those colossal, hazel stare: a burst of greenish brown specks like splinters of a tattering surf board in collision with a surge of raging sea water. Yes, in short that man got you bad, so damn bad you don’t mind drowning or becoming a lost cause in the surge of those vast, hazel gazes.
So, what now? Of course, you want him to get up on his...
So, what now? Of course, you want him to get up on his...
#SylviaPlath
#SharonOlds
1096 reads
6 Comments
ricecake
Poem Published
30th Sep 2012 7:31am
30th Sep 2012 7:31am
Plath is dead
Plath is dead
Long live Plath
And so we should
Celebrate our lives,
Long live life
Hold your hand, your friends' hand,
Long live friendship
Soak in the afternoon sun
Write letters to the One
Dream of escapes by boat
Leaving suicide bombers remote,
Forget iPods, touch real pods
With your hands water plants of
Pink and white
Turn dark into light,
Plath is dead
Long live Plath
Long live Plath
And so we should
Celebrate our lives,
Long live life
Hold your hand, your friends' hand,
Long live friendship
Soak in the afternoon sun
Write letters to the One
Dream of escapes by boat
Leaving suicide bombers remote,
Forget iPods, touch real pods
With your hands water plants of
Pink and white
Turn dark into light,
Plath is dead
Long live Plath
#SylviaPlath
657 reads
0 Comments
DU Poetry : Poems on Sylvia Plath Seeking Honest Critique
#SylviaPlath is curated by Ahavati (Tams).
