| Sylvia Plath | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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Child
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Your clear eye is one absolutely beautiful thing. | I want to fill it with color and ducks The zoo of the new Whose names you meditate- April snowdrop, Indian Pipe, Little Stalk without wrinkle, Pool in which images Should be grand and classical Not this troublous Wringing of hands, this dark Ceiling without a star. Sylvia Plath 28 January 1963
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November Graveyard
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The scene stands stubborn: skinflint trees | Hoars last years leaves, won't mourn, wear sackcloth or turn to elegiac dryads, and dour grass Guards the hard - hearted emerald of its grassiness However the grandiloquent mind may scorn Such poverty. No dead men's cries Flower forget me nots between the stones Paving this grave ground. Here's the honest rot To unpick the heart, pare bone Free of the fictive vein. When one stark skeleton Bulks real, all saints' tongues fall quiet: Flies watch no resurrections in the sun. All the essential landscape stare, stare Till your eyes foist a vision, dazzling on the wind Whatever lost ghosts flare Damned , howling in their shrouds across the moor rave on the leash of the starving mind Which peoples the bare room, the blank, untenanted air. S. Plath
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Southern Sunrise
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color of lemon, mango, peach | These storybook villas Still dream behind Shutters, their balconies Fine as hand- Made lace, or a leaf and flower pen sketch Tilting with the winds On arrowy stems Pineapple barked A green cresent of palms Sends up its forked Firework of fronds A quartz clear dawn Inch by bright inch Gilds all our avenue And out of the blue drench of Angel's bay Rises the round red watermelon sun S Plath
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