Unlucky the hero born
In this province of the stuck record
Where the most watchful cooks go jobles
Widow. The word consumes itself —-
Body, a sheet of newsprint on the fire
Levitating a numb minu
There, spring lambs jam the sheepfold. In air
Stilled, silvered as water in a glass
Nothing is big
In the marketplace they are piling the dry sticks.
A thicket of shadows is a poor coat. I inhabit
This is the city where men are mended.
I lie on a great anvil.
The flat blue sky-circle
poet Sylvia Plath #14 on top 500 poets Poet's PagePoemsQuotesCommentsStatsBiographyShare on Facebook
My love for you is more
athletic than a verb,
Agile as a star
The tents of sun absorb.
This is not what I meant:
Stucco arches, the banked rocks sunning in rows,
Bald eyes or petrified
Woodsmoke and a distant loudspeaker
Filter into this clear
Air, and blur.
The red tomato's in,
O maiden aunt, you have come to call.
Do step into the hall!
With your bold
Gecko, the little fli
Cold on my narrow cot I lie
and in sorrow look
through my window-square of black:
figured in th
Outlandish as a circus, the ravaged face
Parades the marketplace, lurid and stricken
By some unutt
Halfway up from the little harbor of sardine boats,
Halfway down from groves where the thin, bitter
Sing praise for statuary:
For those anchored attitudes
And staunch stone eyes that stare
The white light is artificial, and hygienic as heaven.
The microbes cannot survive it.
They are de
Stalemated their armies stood, with tottering banners:
She flung from a room
Still ringing with br
It was a place of force—
The wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
Tearing off my voice,
O mud, mud, how fluid! —-
Thick as foreign coffee, and with a sluggy pulse.
Speak, speak! Who is
The ordinary milkman brought that dawn
Of destiny, delivered to the door
In square hermetic bottle
I can taste the tin of the sky —- the real tin thing.
Winter dawn is the color of metal,
Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear;
The wheels revolve, the universe keeps running.
From fabrication springs the spiral stair
up which the wakeful princess climbs to find
When night comes black
Such royal dreams beckon this man
As lift him apart
From his earth-wife's
The month of flowering's finished. The fruit's in,
Eaten or rotten. I am all mouth.