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A representative selection of verse by the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer who left in the wake of her personal tragedy a legacy of poems that combine terrifying intensity and dazzling artistry. With their brutally frank self-exposure and emotional immediacy, Plath's poems, from "Lady Lazarus" to "Daddy," have had an enduring influence on contemporary poetry.
133 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1981
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About the author
Sylvia Plath
287 books28.8k followersSylvia Plath was an American poet, novelist, and short story writer, widely regarded as one of the most influential and emotionally powerful authors of the 20th century. Born in Boston, Massachusetts, she demonstrated literary talent from an early age, publishing her first poem at the age of eight. Her early life was shaped by the death of her father, Otto Plath, when she was eight years old, a trauma that would profoundly influence her later work.
Plath attended Smith College, where she excelled academically but also struggled privately with depression. In 1953, she survived a suicide attempt, an experience she later fictionalized in her semi-autobiographical novel The Bell Jar. After recovering, she earned a Fulbright Scholarship to study at Newnham College, Cambridge, in England. While there, she met and married English poet Ted Hughes in 1956. Their relationship was passionate but tumultuous, with tensions exacerbated by personal differences and Hughes's infidelities.
Throughout her life, Plath sought to balance her ambitions as a writer with the demands of marriage and motherhood. She had two children with Hughes, Frieda and Nicholas, and continued to write prolifically. In 1960, her first poetry collection, The Colossus and Other Poems, was published in the United Kingdom. Although it received modest critical attention at the time, it laid the foundation for her distinctive voice—intensely personal, often exploring themes of death, rebirth, and female identity.
Plath's marriage unraveled in 1962, leading to a period of intense emotional turmoil but also extraordinary creative output. Living with her two children in London, she wrote many of the poems that would posthumously form Ariel, the collection that would cement her literary legacy. These works, filled with striking imagery and raw emotional force, displayed her ability to turn personal suffering into powerful art. Poems like "Daddy" and "Lady Lazarus" remain among her most famous, celebrated for their fierce honesty and technical brilliance.
In early 1963, following a deepening depression, Plath died by suicide at the age of 30. Her death shocked the literary world and sparked a lasting fascination with her life and work. The posthumous publication of Ariel in 1965, edited by Hughes, introduced Plath's later poetry to a wide audience and established her as a major figure in modern literature. Her novel The Bell Jar was also published under her own name shortly after her death, having initially appeared under the pseudonym "Victoria Lucas."
Plath’s work is often classified within the genre of confessional poetry, a style that emphasizes personal and psychological experiences. Her fearless exploration of themes like mental illness, female oppression, and death has resonated with generations of readers and scholars. Over time, Plath has become a feminist icon, though her legacy is complex and occasionally controversial, especially in light of debates over Hughes's role in managing her literary estate and personal history.
Today, Sylvia Plath is remembered not only for her tragic personal story but also for her immense contributions to American and English literature. Her work continues to inspire writers, artists, and readers worldwide. Collections such as Ariel, Crossing the Water, and Winter Trees, as well as her journals and letters, offer deep insight into her creative mind. Sylvia Plath’s voice, marked by its intensity and emotional clarity, remains one of the most haunting and enduring in modern literature.
Plath attended Smith College, where she excelled academically but also struggled privately with depression. In 1953, she survived a suicide attempt, an experience she later fictionalized in her semi-autobiographical novel The Bell Jar. After recovering, she earned a Fulbright Scholarship to study at Newnham College, Cambridge, in England. While there, she met and married English poet Ted Hughes in 1956. Their relationship was passionate but tumultuous, with tensions exacerbated by personal differences and Hughes's infidelities.
Throughout her life, Plath sought to balance her ambitions as a writer with the demands of marriage and motherhood. She had two children with Hughes, Frieda and Nicholas, and continued to write prolifically. In 1960, her first poetry collection, The Colossus and Other Poems, was published in the United Kingdom. Although it received modest critical attention at the time, it laid the foundation for her distinctive voice—intensely personal, often exploring themes of death, rebirth, and female identity.
Plath's marriage unraveled in 1962, leading to a period of intense emotional turmoil but also extraordinary creative output. Living with her two children in London, she wrote many of the poems that would posthumously form Ariel, the collection that would cement her literary legacy. These works, filled with striking imagery and raw emotional force, displayed her ability to turn personal suffering into powerful art. Poems like "Daddy" and "Lady Lazarus" remain among her most famous, celebrated for their fierce honesty and technical brilliance.
In early 1963, following a deepening depression, Plath died by suicide at the age of 30. Her death shocked the literary world and sparked a lasting fascination with her life and work. The posthumous publication of Ariel in 1965, edited by Hughes, introduced Plath's later poetry to a wide audience and established her as a major figure in modern literature. Her novel The Bell Jar was also published under her own name shortly after her death, having initially appeared under the pseudonym "Victoria Lucas."
Plath’s work is often classified within the genre of confessional poetry, a style that emphasizes personal and psychological experiences. Her fearless exploration of themes like mental illness, female oppression, and death has resonated with generations of readers and scholars. Over time, Plath has become a feminist icon, though her legacy is complex and occasionally controversial, especially in light of debates over Hughes's role in managing her literary estate and personal history.
Today, Sylvia Plath is remembered not only for her tragic personal story but also for her immense contributions to American and English literature. Her work continues to inspire writers, artists, and readers worldwide. Collections such as Ariel, Crossing the Water, and Winter Trees, as well as her journals and letters, offer deep insight into her creative mind. Sylvia Plath’s voice, marked by its intensity and emotional clarity, remains one of the most haunting and enduring in modern literature.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 157 reviews
December 2, 2012
I'm not sure if I'm being morbid but it is almost impossible for me to read any of Sylvia Plath's work without thinking about her suicide. I guess it's because her poetry is already so dark, and knowing that she suffered from depression and ended her own life, adds another element to it.
With that being said, I did appreciate the melancholy feel of this poem collection. Every sentence is beautiful and uses very evocative language.She was evidently so gifted and it's hard to imagine she was only 30 years old when she died. Speaking of 30, the age was mentioned several times during the book so I wonder if that number held any significance to her.
With that being said, I did appreciate the melancholy feel of this poem collection. Every sentence is beautiful and uses very evocative language.She was evidently so gifted and it's hard to imagine she was only 30 years old when she died. Speaking of 30, the age was mentioned several times during the book so I wonder if that number held any significance to her.
June 14, 2020
It simply does not do to look at the world through rose-tinted glasses, so every now and then I bathe mine in a borrowed genius for poesy. Sylvia Plath's, in particular, makes an excellent tincture, and lasts me for days.
Poetry, in Plath's case, was both a labour of love — for writing, a love she was committed to honing all through her life — and of pain. Suffering is not a necessary ingredient for great art, but it does lend a certain depth of perception, a unique standpoint if you will. None of this is to segue into a treatise on her suicide — that pain was hers alone. But there is another kind; heavily imbued, moving and crystalline; that she left to the wor(l)d, and it has jostled me, angered me, made me smile, lent me warmth, verse after painstakingly metered (and yet, unfailingly emotive) verse. Most of her poems aren't about pain either, as prominently as they may feature them, but about childhood, motherhood, nature, happiness, jealousy, contemplation, what you will — all of them whole and none fit to be ill-judged by this singular part that pain is. The woman really knew how to distill sentiment by hand.
This excellent selection from Plath’s oeuvre, curated by Diane Wood Middlebrook and consisting Plath's juvenilia and poems written between 1956 and 1963, is intensely representative of both the poet's artistry and her growth chronologically and over the years. It also includes the Bee Poems, the astounding Hospital Poems, as well as the rare verse play on the various traumas of childbirth, titled Three Women, which Plath wrote and performed for BBC Radio 3 in 1962. It is widely known that 1962 was Plath’s most productive year, widely described as the time she was “brimming with poetry” and “writing non-stop,” and this volume really puts it into perspective: nearly 40% of the poems included here are from that fateful year. Aside from the more prominent poems like “Daddy,” “Lady Lazarus” and “You’re,” my personal favourites herein are the brilliant verse-play, “Suicide off Egg-rock,” “I Am Vertical,” “Elm,” “Winter Trees,” “Sheep In Fog,” and “Edge.”
I also cannot help add a note on how delightful this edition is physically: rich with a simple yet ornate dust jacket, cover embossed in gold, truly suited to the treasure inside.
Poetry, in Plath's case, was both a labour of love — for writing, a love she was committed to honing all through her life — and of pain. Suffering is not a necessary ingredient for great art, but it does lend a certain depth of perception, a unique standpoint if you will. None of this is to segue into a treatise on her suicide — that pain was hers alone. But there is another kind; heavily imbued, moving and crystalline; that she left to the wor(l)d, and it has jostled me, angered me, made me smile, lent me warmth, verse after painstakingly metered (and yet, unfailingly emotive) verse. Most of her poems aren't about pain either, as prominently as they may feature them, but about childhood, motherhood, nature, happiness, jealousy, contemplation, what you will — all of them whole and none fit to be ill-judged by this singular part that pain is. The woman really knew how to distill sentiment by hand.
This excellent selection from Plath’s oeuvre, curated by Diane Wood Middlebrook and consisting Plath's juvenilia and poems written between 1956 and 1963, is intensely representative of both the poet's artistry and her growth chronologically and over the years. It also includes the Bee Poems, the astounding Hospital Poems, as well as the rare verse play on the various traumas of childbirth, titled Three Women, which Plath wrote and performed for BBC Radio 3 in 1962. It is widely known that 1962 was Plath’s most productive year, widely described as the time she was “brimming with poetry” and “writing non-stop,” and this volume really puts it into perspective: nearly 40% of the poems included here are from that fateful year. Aside from the more prominent poems like “Daddy,” “Lady Lazarus” and “You’re,” my personal favourites herein are the brilliant verse-play, “Suicide off Egg-rock,” “I Am Vertical,” “Elm,” “Winter Trees,” “Sheep In Fog,” and “Edge.”
I also cannot help add a note on how delightful this edition is physically: rich with a simple yet ornate dust jacket, cover embossed in gold, truly suited to the treasure inside.
August 3, 2020
See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks.
I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
Sylvia Plath is one of those artists, whose tragic yet fruitful life always fascinated me.
This is my first time reading her work and although I did like some of her poems, some others I didn't' enjoy as much. Maybe this is deserving of a 2.8/5 but it was overall a positive experience.
I've happened to read some lines from her diaries as well and I think those (at least the ones I read) did hit me straight in the heart, so I may give a chance to those as well!
I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
Sylvia Plath is one of those artists, whose tragic yet fruitful life always fascinated me.
This is my first time reading her work and although I did like some of her poems, some others I didn't' enjoy as much. Maybe this is deserving of a 2.8/5 but it was overall a positive experience.
I've happened to read some lines from her diaries as well and I think those (at least the ones I read) did hit me straight in the heart, so I may give a chance to those as well!
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February 5, 2025this did a number on me
Read
January 3, 2025Yleensä luen aina vaan suomeksi mutta tän kohdalla oikeesti huomas et käännös tökki ihan sikana. Salee tää englanniks on ihavitun ytimekästä mut suomen monitavuisemmilla sanamuodoilla rytmi menee paikoin erittäin laahaavaksi voivotteluksi. Myös englannin sana "bald" joka kääntyis erittäin mukavasti mm. muotoon "paljas" tai "karu" on suomennettu lähes poikkeuksetta muotoon "kalju" eli oon keskellä jotain suurenmoista herkkyytä ja kesken kaiken alan miettimään pakonomaisesti jotain risto jokisen paljasta päälakea.
July 10, 2017
My favourite collection of poetry by far. Her words easily take me to another place. This edition is so beautifully put together. I love that the book is small with pretty gold lines and gold ribbon book mark. I will carry this around with me.
March 13, 2016
"I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free—"
- Excerpt from Tulips
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free—"
- Excerpt from Tulips
February 11, 2022
“Poesia é uma disciplina tirânica. Você tem de ir tão longe, tão rápido, em tão pouco tempo, que nem sempre é possível dar conta do periférico. Num romance talvez eu possa conseguir mais da vida, mas num poema eu consigo uma vida mais intensa”. (Sylvia Plath em entrevista à BBC, em outubro de 1962).
edição excelente essa da iluminuras, com tradução, seleção e fortuna crítica de rodrigo garcia lopes e maurício arruda mendonça. infelizmente nenhum poema de sylvia conseguiu me arrebatar ainda, talvez “canção da manhã”, porém sigo minhas leituras ainda interessado por sua figura, talvez mais do que por sua obra poética (até agora).
interessante apontar também que seus poemas não são um retrato autobiográfico, ela não se limita a isso, “seus poemas são um delírio lapidado por um método. Restringir a leitura de seus poemas ao que a vida da poeta teve de trágico e curioso é desprezar seu método de escrita”. uma boa chave de iniciação a sylvia plath, além de adquirir essa coleção “poemas”.
edição excelente essa da iluminuras, com tradução, seleção e fortuna crítica de rodrigo garcia lopes e maurício arruda mendonça. infelizmente nenhum poema de sylvia conseguiu me arrebatar ainda, talvez “canção da manhã”, porém sigo minhas leituras ainda interessado por sua figura, talvez mais do que por sua obra poética (até agora).
interessante apontar também que seus poemas não são um retrato autobiográfico, ela não se limita a isso, “seus poemas são um delírio lapidado por um método. Restringir a leitura de seus poemas ao que a vida da poeta teve de trágico e curioso é desprezar seu método de escrita”. uma boa chave de iniciação a sylvia plath, além de adquirir essa coleção “poemas”.
August 6, 2022
Väga palju head, kuid ka omajagu arusaamatut materjali. Mulle vist meeldisid siit pigem need lühemad luuletused. Need olid luuletused kus ta väga palju sümboleid ja narratiive juurde ei toonud, ning seega osutusid konkreetsemaks ja arusaadavamaks minusugusele luulevōhikule. Pikemad luuletused kahjuks valgusid laiali minu jaoks. Oli tunda, kui palju emotsionaalset energiat oli nendest värsidesse salvestunud. Paljud luuletused algasid nii tabavalt:
Ma ei suuda sind kunagi tervikuks kokku panna.
See on linn, kus parandatakse inimesi.
Kui kuu naerataks, meenutaks ta sind.
Ta oskab väga hästi oma sisemisi maastikke sōnadega visandada. Ja ta tegi seda ka väga sürrealistlikult. Nii sürrealistikult, et tihti jäidki need mul dešifreerimata. Sealt tulebki see segadus.
Minu lemmikud luuletused olid: Papa, Rivaal, Müstik, Kivid, Mesilassülem, Lorelei ja Koloss.
Ma ei suuda sind kunagi tervikuks kokku panna.
See on linn, kus parandatakse inimesi.
Kui kuu naerataks, meenutaks ta sind.
Ta oskab väga hästi oma sisemisi maastikke sōnadega visandada. Ja ta tegi seda ka väga sürrealistlikult. Nii sürrealistikult, et tihti jäidki need mul dešifreerimata. Sealt tulebki see segadus.
Minu lemmikud luuletused olid: Papa, Rivaal, Müstik, Kivid, Mesilassülem, Lorelei ja Koloss.
February 28, 2007
"Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark, as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools' Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on."
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark, as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools' Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on."
January 25, 2018
I must admit, I struggled quite a bit with Plath's poetry (I still do), but once I read her biography, everything fell into the place and it was much easier to work through the poems. I can't say I am anywhere close to understanding all the various meanings, but all I wanted was a jumping-off point into Plath, anyway. So here's to a beginning...
There were so many beautiful lines in here, and so much raw emotion.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
There were so many beautiful lines in here, and so much raw emotion.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
June 19, 2019
Month after month, with its voices of failure.
I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string.
I am restless. Restless and useless. I, too, create corpses.
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August 11, 2023vajab teist lugemist
February 23, 2017
"Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well". Her prose in Lady Lazarus makes me read and re-read it over again. Truly wonderful
August 16, 2020
Olen huono lukemaan runoja, ja silti yritän välillä. Halusin tietää, kuka Plath on, ja tän kirjan esipuhe olikin mulle parasta antia! Antoi hyvän kuvan siitä miksi Plath on suosittu ja millaista hänen elämänsä oli. Olisi pitänyt enemmän esipuheeseen tukeutuen lukea joitain siinä mainittuja runoja.
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June 18, 2022jednostavno sam glupa za poeziju tako da necu da dam rejting, ali svaka cast gospodji silviji
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November 3, 2022…
kuna roheline tiik teeb lahti oma silma,
tundes pööritust sellest, mis ta alla on neelanud -
jäsemeid, peegelpilte ja karjeid. Betoonpunkrite taga
eralduvad teineteisest kaks armastajat.
Oo mere valge saviserviis,
mis varjatud ohked, mis sool kurgus…
Ja värisev pealtvaataja,
keda pika kangatükina
sellest nakkusohtlikust tardumusest läbi lohistatakse,
ja mererohi, karvane nagu häbe.
kuna roheline tiik teeb lahti oma silma,
tundes pööritust sellest, mis ta alla on neelanud -
jäsemeid, peegelpilte ja karjeid. Betoonpunkrite taga
eralduvad teineteisest kaks armastajat.
Oo mere valge saviserviis,
mis varjatud ohked, mis sool kurgus…
Ja värisev pealtvaataja,
keda pika kangatükina
sellest nakkusohtlikust tardumusest läbi lohistatakse,
ja mererohi, karvane nagu häbe.
July 14, 2023
mam olbrzymią słabość do Plath
December 21, 2019
I have a really hard time rating anything by Sylvia Plath because her writing is always depressing, a little confusing and somewhat offensive.
I read T.S. Elliot’s Old Possum’s Book for Practical Cats and took down a star for the deragatory word used for Chinese in two of the poems.
I read The Bell Jar earlier this year, and was shocked by the amount of times the word “negro” was used to describe a black orderly at the hospital Esther was sent to. She also kicks the orderly at one point. There was also severe homophobia from the MC that led to another girl’s suicide.
Of course during the time these things were somewhat acceptable. This was the 50s and 60s, segregation was still a thing.
But that doesn’t make it any easier to read about.
In multiple poems Sylvia uses horrible terms as metaphors. Jew, the n-word, nazi, m*dget... African hands and the n-word are replacements for the word “black” or darkness.
The poem Daddy, which is a poem I loved. I couldn’t read it aloud because of how many times she says Jew.
I would also just slap a trigger warning on here for suicide. I always was really angry to learn that Tex Hughes destroyed Sylvia’s last journal that she kept before she died. It made me feel like he was hiding something that showed he was at fault for her suicide.
But reading these poems in chronological order of how she wrote them, I understand. Multiple these poems use suicidal idolization.
These poems include:
- I am Vertical
- The Detective
- Childless Woman
- Lady Lazarus
- The Edge
If “The Edge” is the last poem she wrote before she died which I would have to double check, but if it is, you could consider it her suicide note.
I find that Sylvia Plath’s writing is overall just okay, there’s some good poems but a lot of them are tiresome to understand.
What I find interesting is herself as a person. Also I find it extremely disappointing that Mad Girl’s Love Song was not included in this collection.
Anyway, three stars.
I read T.S. Elliot’s Old Possum’s Book for Practical Cats and took down a star for the deragatory word used for Chinese in two of the poems.
I read The Bell Jar earlier this year, and was shocked by the amount of times the word “negro” was used to describe a black orderly at the hospital Esther was sent to. She also kicks the orderly at one point. There was also severe homophobia from the MC that led to another girl’s suicide.
Of course during the time these things were somewhat acceptable. This was the 50s and 60s, segregation was still a thing.
But that doesn’t make it any easier to read about.
In multiple poems Sylvia uses horrible terms as metaphors. Jew, the n-word, nazi, m*dget... African hands and the n-word are replacements for the word “black” or darkness.
The poem Daddy, which is a poem I loved. I couldn’t read it aloud because of how many times she says Jew.
I would also just slap a trigger warning on here for suicide. I always was really angry to learn that Tex Hughes destroyed Sylvia’s last journal that she kept before she died. It made me feel like he was hiding something that showed he was at fault for her suicide.
But reading these poems in chronological order of how she wrote them, I understand. Multiple these poems use suicidal idolization.
These poems include:
- I am Vertical
- The Detective
- Childless Woman
- Lady Lazarus
- The Edge
If “The Edge” is the last poem she wrote before she died which I would have to double check, but if it is, you could consider it her suicide note.
I find that Sylvia Plath’s writing is overall just okay, there’s some good poems but a lot of them are tiresome to understand.
What I find interesting is herself as a person. Also I find it extremely disappointing that Mad Girl’s Love Song was not included in this collection.
Anyway, three stars.
April 11, 2018
Probably the best collection of poems I've read of any author but definitely the best from Plath (so far as I've read).
Moving, disturbing, beautiful, incredible, ingenious, got any more words?
I especially loved the one at the end, Three Women, that has been performed on BBC 19.8.1962. Immeadiately when I started to read it I could hear it in my head and see it performed on a stage. Very emotional on so many levels.
The quality of the poems in this collection was unbelievably high. There were only a few that either language lost me or that didn't move my insides into a new order.
Moving, disturbing, beautiful, incredible, ingenious, got any more words?
I especially loved the one at the end, Three Women, that has been performed on BBC 19.8.1962. Immeadiately when I started to read it I could hear it in my head and see it performed on a stage. Very emotional on so many levels.
The quality of the poems in this collection was unbelievably high. There were only a few that either language lost me or that didn't move my insides into a new order.
February 23, 2018
I spent probably WAY more time thinking about how to interpret these poems as I did reading them, and I’m not at all sure I succeeded. And though the Notes at the end helped to some extent, many puzzles remained. I was motivated to check out her bio online, however, and saw a number of red flags accumulating in her life as February 1963 approached.
January 5, 2018
Runsaiden kieli-ja mielikuvien multimiljönääri.
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October 6, 2018Omaäänisiä, traagisia ja vahvoja runoja. Alan viimein hyväksyä, ettei runous vain ole oma genreni, mutta se on minun ongelmani, ei Plathin. Ehkä jotain proosaa häneltä seuraavaksi.
January 23, 2019
Not that you can ever really be finished reading and rereading Plath's work. I felt deeply, I had breakthroughs, I experienced something profoundly beautiful.
November 2, 2025
In her poems she writes with chilling clarity about her pain, but the clarity doesn't bring relief; it seems to only sharpen her awareness of being trapped inside herself.
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July 10, 2020I love plath forever.
October 28, 2023
“i do it so it feels like hell. i do it so it feels real.”
why does this line remind me so much of “you bleed just to know you’re alive” from the song iris??
this tiny book has truly travelled many a kilometre :)
why does this line remind me so much of “you bleed just to know you’re alive” from the song iris??
this tiny book has truly travelled many a kilometre :)
December 29, 2022
The lack of Mad Girl's Love Song is a crime.
March 9, 2010
With Eliot, I only occasionally feel the pungency his declared influences (English Metaphysicals and French Symbolists) seem to promise. This, though, might be the thing. Creepy-crawlies and the skull beneath the skin.
-----
Looking back, I might have just read the carefully sequenced, climactic Ariel, but this selection, Diane Middlebrook's, was pretty consistently thrilling all the same. What a poet! Two of Plath's strengths immediately compelled my admiration: her genius for well-wrought hallucination--
How the elements solidify!
The moonlight, that chalk cliff
In whose rift we lie
Back to back. I here an owl cry
From its cold indigo.
Intolerable vowels enter my heart.
The child in the white crib revolves and sighs,
Opens its mouth now, demanding.
His little face is carved in pained, red wood.
("Event")
My god the iron lung
That loves me, pumps
My two
Dust bags in and out...
("Paralytic")
--and her attention to the cavorting beasties, her comprehensive sight:
The crabs
Inched from their pygmy burrows
And from the trench-dug mud, all Camouflaged in mottled mail
Of browns and greens. Each wore one
Claw swollen to a shield large
As itself--no fiddler's arm
Grown Gargantuan by trade,
But grown grimly, and grimly
Borne, for a use beyond my
Guessing of it.
[...:]
They moved
Obliquely with a dry-wet
Sound, with a glittery wisp
And trickle. Could they feel mud
Pleasurable under claws
As I could between bare toes?
("Mussel Hunter at Rock Harbor")
Pebble smells, turnipy chambers.
Small nostrils are breathing.
("Poem for a Birthday")
Yep, I'll be reading more of her in the future. And I'm curious what her prose is like. I mean, just look at this:
He won't be got rid of:
Mumblepaws, teary and sorry,
Fido Littlesoul, the bowel's familiar.
A dustbin's enough for him.
The dark's his bone.
Call him any name, he'll come to it.
-----
Looking back, I might have just read the carefully sequenced, climactic Ariel, but this selection, Diane Middlebrook's, was pretty consistently thrilling all the same. What a poet! Two of Plath's strengths immediately compelled my admiration: her genius for well-wrought hallucination--
How the elements solidify!
The moonlight, that chalk cliff
In whose rift we lie
Back to back. I here an owl cry
From its cold indigo.
Intolerable vowels enter my heart.
The child in the white crib revolves and sighs,
Opens its mouth now, demanding.
His little face is carved in pained, red wood.
("Event")
My god the iron lung
That loves me, pumps
My two
Dust bags in and out...
("Paralytic")
--and her attention to the cavorting beasties, her comprehensive sight:
The crabs
Inched from their pygmy burrows
And from the trench-dug mud, all Camouflaged in mottled mail
Of browns and greens. Each wore one
Claw swollen to a shield large
As itself--no fiddler's arm
Grown Gargantuan by trade,
But grown grimly, and grimly
Borne, for a use beyond my
Guessing of it.
[...:]
They moved
Obliquely with a dry-wet
Sound, with a glittery wisp
And trickle. Could they feel mud
Pleasurable under claws
As I could between bare toes?
("Mussel Hunter at Rock Harbor")
Pebble smells, turnipy chambers.
Small nostrils are breathing.
("Poem for a Birthday")
Yep, I'll be reading more of her in the future. And I'm curious what her prose is like. I mean, just look at this:
He won't be got rid of:
Mumblepaws, teary and sorry,
Fido Littlesoul, the bowel's familiar.
A dustbin's enough for him.
The dark's his bone.
Call him any name, he'll come to it.
July 13, 2012
I've recently concluded that I won't finish books of poetry longer than 100 pages. However, these pages are so small that maybe I'll get through all 258 of them. This is what I read while facing the poetry bookcase at Nice Price Books with Otis on the end of his leash waiting patiently on a floor that hasn't been cleaned in years:
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin
of a mouth.
(....And suddenly I needed Georgia O'Keefe in the room, stat!)
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin
of a mouth.
(....And suddenly I needed Georgia O'Keefe in the room, stat!)
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