Poems on Sylvia Plath Published by Members Recently Online
#SylviaPlath
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
965 reads
34 Comments
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
965 reads
34 Comments
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
965 reads
34 Comments
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
965 reads
34 Comments
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
834 reads
2 Comments
The Bell Jar
But I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday—at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere—the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn’t descend again?" - Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
There were no red roses to anger me
Yet I was a storm inside on the day of my birth
Raging around my own asylum cell
Waiting for someone to tell me
That I'm fine
That they'll take care of everything
I left behind
The golden girl was long gone
With her honors, and college, and contests, and prizes
Replaced by someone...
There were no red roses to anger me
Yet I was a storm inside on the day of my birth
Raging around my own asylum cell
Waiting for someone to tell me
That I'm fine
That they'll take care of everything
I left behind
The golden girl was long gone
With her honors, and college, and contests, and prizes
Replaced by someone...
#teens
#dreams
#confessional
#SylviaPlath
#myself
621 reads
2 Comments
The Bell Jar
But I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday—at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere—the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn’t descend again?" - Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
There were no red roses to anger me
Yet I was a storm inside on the day of my birth
Raging around my own asylum cell
Waiting for someone to tell me
That I'm fine
That they'll take care of everything
I left behind
The golden girl was long gone
With her honors, and college, and contests, and prizes
Replaced by someone...
There were no red roses to anger me
Yet I was a storm inside on the day of my birth
Raging around my own asylum cell
Waiting for someone to tell me
That I'm fine
That they'll take care of everything
I left behind
The golden girl was long gone
With her honors, and college, and contests, and prizes
Replaced by someone...
#teens
#dreams
#confessional
#SylviaPlath
#myself
621 reads
2 Comments
The Bell Jar
But I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday—at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere—the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn’t descend again?" - Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
There were no red roses to anger me
Yet I was a storm inside on the day of my birth
Raging around my own asylum cell
Waiting for someone to tell me
That I'm fine
That they'll take care of everything
I left behind
The golden girl was long gone
With her honors, and college, and contests, and prizes
Replaced by someone...
There were no red roses to anger me
Yet I was a storm inside on the day of my birth
Raging around my own asylum cell
Waiting for someone to tell me
That I'm fine
That they'll take care of everything
I left behind
The golden girl was long gone
With her honors, and college, and contests, and prizes
Replaced by someone...
#teens
#dreams
#confessional
#SylviaPlath
#myself
621 reads
2 Comments
The Bell Jar
But I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday—at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere—the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn’t descend again?" - Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
There were no red roses to anger me
Yet I was a storm inside on the day of my birth
Raging around my own asylum cell
Waiting for someone to tell me
That I'm fine
That they'll take care of everything
I left behind
The golden girl was long gone
With her honors, and college, and contests, and prizes
Replaced by someone...
There were no red roses to anger me
Yet I was a storm inside on the day of my birth
Raging around my own asylum cell
Waiting for someone to tell me
That I'm fine
That they'll take care of everything
I left behind
The golden girl was long gone
With her honors, and college, and contests, and prizes
Replaced by someone...
#teens
#dreams
#confessional
#SylviaPlath
#myself
621 reads
2 Comments
The Bell Jar
But I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday—at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere—the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn’t descend again?" - Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
There were no red roses to anger me
Yet I was a storm inside on the day of my birth
Raging around my own asylum cell
Waiting for someone to tell me
That I'm fine
That they'll take care of everything
I left behind
The golden girl was long gone
With her honors, and college, and contests, and prizes
Replaced by someone...
There were no red roses to anger me
Yet I was a storm inside on the day of my birth
Raging around my own asylum cell
Waiting for someone to tell me
That I'm fine
That they'll take care of everything
I left behind
The golden girl was long gone
With her honors, and college, and contests, and prizes
Replaced by someone...
#teens
#dreams
#confessional
#SylviaPlath
#myself
621 reads
2 Comments
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
747 reads
9 Comments
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
747 reads
9 Comments
DU Poetry : Poems on Sylvia Plath Published by Members Recently Online
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Ahavati
#SylviaPlath is curated by Ahavati.