Poems on Sylvia Plath Published by Members Recently Online
#SylviaPlath
toniscales
Lost Girl
Lost Girl
Poem Published
13th Apr 2015 12:02pm
13th Apr 2015 12:02pm
Staring at a Photo of Sylvia Plath on Her Paris Honeymoon, 1956
(written for LSP's "Ode to the Female Poet" competition)
I am looking down on you, my love,
and quite sad among the quiet.
I see God in your eyes,
God is the light around you,
the halo that is your shoulders,
rib-cage, soft pockmark of your belly
in a lush tweed wave crowning
the midnight beach.
It has grown cold outside, too cold,
for the fingers weep and freeze
in place. I would wish to sit
and smoke, efface my eyes in such
a vapor, so I might never see again.
But there is a chill that bites,...
I am looking down on you, my love,
and quite sad among the quiet.
I see God in your eyes,
God is the light around you,
the halo that is your shoulders,
rib-cage, soft pockmark of your belly
in a lush tweed wave crowning
the midnight beach.
It has grown cold outside, too cold,
for the fingers weep and freeze
in place. I would wish to sit
and smoke, efface my eyes in such
a vapor, so I might never see again.
But there is a chill that bites,...
#SylviaPlath
893 reads
2 Comments
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
613 reads
1 Comment
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
613 reads
1 Comment
DU Poetry : Poems on Sylvia Plath Published by Members Recently Online
#SylviaPlath is curated by Ahavati (Tams).
