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The Collected Poems
"By the time of her death, on 11 February, 1963, Sylvia Plath had written a large bulk of poetry. To my knowledge, she never scrapped any of her poetic efforts. With one or two exceptions, she brought every piece she worked on to some final form acceptable to her, rejecting at most the odd verse, or a false head or a false tail. Her attitude to her verse was artisan-like: if she couldn't get a table out of the material, she was quite happy to get a chair, or even a toy. The end product for her was not so much a successful poem, as something that had temporarily exhausted her ingenuity. So this book contains not merely what verse she saved, but-after 1956-all she wrote." -Ted Hughes, from the Introduction
384 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1981
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About the author
Sylvia Plath
278 books27.3k 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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July 23, 2022just bought this yesterday, on a scale of 1 to 10 how mentally-ill do you think i am ?
February 24, 2018
I keep coming back to Sylvia Plath whenever I'm trying to make sense of my own troubles. Since my troubles rarely make sense, that means I come back to this quite often.
Which is so incredibly cliched, it would normally make me cringe. I mean, its screams "I'm a damaged girl, and I read Sylvia Plath, just like all the other damaged girls!"
But I don't cringe, because ultimately, her poetry makes me feel. I have this incredibly old, earmarked and tattered edition that is full of notes in the margins, words underlined and phrases highlighted. Scraps of paper with my thoughts tucked between the pages. Its the only book I have ever taken a pencil to and its incredibly private. It doesn't live on my bookshelves with the rest of my collection. And its the only book I don't lend out the friends and family. I'm selfish with it.
Each time I pick it up, I flick to a random page, and take it all in again afresh. Each reading means something different to me, or I see something a different way. For how angry, destructive and wrenching these poems are they also set the reader free, and that's why I keep coming back to them.
Which is so incredibly cliched, it would normally make me cringe. I mean, its screams "I'm a damaged girl, and I read Sylvia Plath, just like all the other damaged girls!"
But I don't cringe, because ultimately, her poetry makes me feel. I have this incredibly old, earmarked and tattered edition that is full of notes in the margins, words underlined and phrases highlighted. Scraps of paper with my thoughts tucked between the pages. Its the only book I have ever taken a pencil to and its incredibly private. It doesn't live on my bookshelves with the rest of my collection. And its the only book I don't lend out the friends and family. I'm selfish with it.
Each time I pick it up, I flick to a random page, and take it all in again afresh. Each reading means something different to me, or I see something a different way. For how angry, destructive and wrenching these poems are they also set the reader free, and that's why I keep coming back to them.
October 31, 2013
Whoo-boy, nobody has given me more trouble than Sylvia Plath. Only Byron may be as difficult in seperating the personality from the work, and with him we at least have a good bit of time since the works were actually written. I half-wonder if anybody can really be objective about her work.
See, she has a group of followers who just about worship her to the point of Tori Amos's fans, where everything she's done is meaningful and perfect. Her suicide date is celebrated. Every word she wrote is put through the lens of her suicide. (Hemingway commited suicide too, but if I recall correctly people celebrate his LIFE and not his death.) And don't even get me started on all those who read Plath and practically no other poetry.
Sounds like I don't like her much, eh? Actually I have no problems with her--just her fans I find irritating. Her work is good, and not about suicide (or sad things) at all. "Daddy" good as it is, isn't even close to her best work (though it may be the most quintessential). The best way to read her, IMHO is to pretend you know nothing of the women and get over the obsession with tacking every poem to her biography. Poems are meant to be free. If you want her life story read her diary.
See, she has a group of followers who just about worship her to the point of Tori Amos's fans, where everything she's done is meaningful and perfect. Her suicide date is celebrated. Every word she wrote is put through the lens of her suicide. (Hemingway commited suicide too, but if I recall correctly people celebrate his LIFE and not his death.) And don't even get me started on all those who read Plath and practically no other poetry.
Sounds like I don't like her much, eh? Actually I have no problems with her--just her fans I find irritating. Her work is good, and not about suicide (or sad things) at all. "Daddy" good as it is, isn't even close to her best work (though it may be the most quintessential). The best way to read her, IMHO is to pretend you know nothing of the women and get over the obsession with tacking every poem to her biography. Poems are meant to be free. If you want her life story read her diary.
March 26, 2011
My psychiatrist laughed when I said I read Sylvia Plath, "why do all you young women" etc. I do think part of it is that Sylvia becomes a friend if you go through some of the same stuff she did. Any famous person who shares your condition does. But to say that's all she's good for, as if there's no merit or instruction in her work...
And then, once again, it's back to the emotional Plath -- phrases that crush your head both because they are so well wrought and also because you know exactly what she was talking about.
I've spent a dozen years reading this book and I've learned that Plath and I may cross over emotionally, but our poetic jaws are not the same. I don't always understand how her construction works. Part of why I keep reading.
Having her all together like this, including juvenilia, is a lesson, especially as her life was so short. I've sought several other complete works since stumbling across this one.
And then, once again, it's back to the emotional Plath -- phrases that crush your head both because they are so well wrought and also because you know exactly what she was talking about.
I've spent a dozen years reading this book and I've learned that Plath and I may cross over emotionally, but our poetic jaws are not the same. I don't always understand how her construction works. Part of why I keep reading.
Having her all together like this, including juvenilia, is a lesson, especially as her life was so short. I've sought several other complete works since stumbling across this one.
February 2, 2024
By her own admission Sylvia Plath rarely discarded a poem—even if they were, in her eyes, imperfect she saved them all. For this we should all be grateful. Poetry as an art form can be rather subjective and artists, even those as gifted as Plath, can drift in and out of style. By presenting her work chronologically and without culling you can viscerally feel her growing as a poet. At the beginning of this collection I was wondering what all the fuss was about and by the end I could barely stand putting the book down.
September 13, 2013
I had this exact edition and carried this book with me all the time. My favorite poem is below in it is below:
I Am Vertical
By Sylvia Plath
But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.
Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them --
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.
I Am Vertical
By Sylvia Plath
But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.
Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them --
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.
February 28, 2014
Sylvia Plath was super gangsta. She stuck her head in an oven and killed herself. Besides that, she wrote some pretty dope poetry and was super fresh.... (I apologize for writing in outdated youthful urban slang, but I was bored and thought it might "spice up" these less-than-mediocre reviews. I can see now, after closer examination, this was a terrible decision... Once again, I apologize for the inconvenience).
Also.... reading Plath's poems extremely intoxicated on alcoholic beverages can be a rewarding and exciting adventure... However!!...... I strongly advise you DO NOT stick your head in an oven during this drunken escapade to replicate how the author might have felt before her last seconds on earth expired...This could end in truly deadly results or, even worse, a failed attempt to make a joke out of this shameful incident at future family gatherings or while hanging out with friends. This will only lead to ridicule and the epiphany that close family and friends have not been laughing with you all those years, but at you....
Finally, I mostly read this book because I was accused of being misogynistic due to the lack of women authors I have read. I hope I have proven to you all that I am not misogynistic and do, in fact, like women. After reading Sylvia Plath (a woman), I hope you all think I am not misogynistic anymore...
However, I still believe women have smaller brains and belong in the kitchen...
I don't know, after sobering up, her words are a bit clamoured together and read densely. I CAN'T DO IT! I am sorry world, but there is not enough booze for me to get through it. I shamefully throw in the towel, its just too dense...I guess I really do hate women after all...sorry. Life is too short to torture yourself and drudge through this...Plath taught us that!
Super dope quotes:
"We mask our past in the green of eden, pretend future's shining fruit can sprout from the navel of this present waste."
"Horizontal lines are like dusk...everyone breathing the same."
Also the poems "Pursuit" and "Tale of a Tub" are pretty great.
Also.... reading Plath's poems extremely intoxicated on alcoholic beverages can be a rewarding and exciting adventure... However!!...... I strongly advise you DO NOT stick your head in an oven during this drunken escapade to replicate how the author might have felt before her last seconds on earth expired...This could end in truly deadly results or, even worse, a failed attempt to make a joke out of this shameful incident at future family gatherings or while hanging out with friends. This will only lead to ridicule and the epiphany that close family and friends have not been laughing with you all those years, but at you....
Finally, I mostly read this book because I was accused of being misogynistic due to the lack of women authors I have read. I hope I have proven to you all that I am not misogynistic and do, in fact, like women. After reading Sylvia Plath (a woman), I hope you all think I am not misogynistic anymore...
However, I still believe women have smaller brains and belong in the kitchen...
I don't know, after sobering up, her words are a bit clamoured together and read densely. I CAN'T DO IT! I am sorry world, but there is not enough booze for me to get through it. I shamefully throw in the towel, its just too dense...I guess I really do hate women after all...sorry. Life is too short to torture yourself and drudge through this...Plath taught us that!
Super dope quotes:
"We mask our past in the green of eden, pretend future's shining fruit can sprout from the navel of this present waste."
"Horizontal lines are like dusk...everyone breathing the same."
Also the poems "Pursuit" and "Tale of a Tub" are pretty great.
July 22, 2022
Bramavo questo libro da anni, conoscevo già la sua penna perché i suoi diari esprimono la sua sofferenza, la sua malattia, il suo amore ma leggere le poesie è ben altro. In entrambi i casi si entra all’interno della sua vita, perché sia le poesie che il diario vogliono dire quotidianità. La sua poesia è definita confessionale, è stata lei stessa a contribuire la diffusione di questo nuovo genere poetico, una poesia che si ispira alla vita quotidiana e personale di chi scrive. Nella sua poesia i temi costanti sono la sofferenza, il dolore, la morte, la voglia di farla finita, la vita mal vissuta, il tradimento, l’amore non ricambiato… e pochissime gioie. D’altronde la sua breve vita è costellata da poche gioie, a parte la nascita dei due figli: Frieda Rebecca e Nicholas.
La poesia della Plath non è per nulla una poesia facile, nel leggerla si sta veramente male. Perché quei versi trasmettono davvero tanto dolore e tantissime urla. Poesie davvero pungenti che fanno riflettere molto e fanno capire il suo malessere e la sua vita in generale.
Impossibile non leggere questo mattoncino se si vuole approfondire la sua esistenza: poesie difficili da dimenticare, perché lasciano il segno dentro.
La poesia della Plath non è per nulla una poesia facile, nel leggerla si sta veramente male. Perché quei versi trasmettono davvero tanto dolore e tantissime urla. Poesie davvero pungenti che fanno riflettere molto e fanno capire il suo malessere e la sua vita in generale.
Impossibile non leggere questo mattoncino se si vuole approfondire la sua esistenza: poesie difficili da dimenticare, perché lasciano il segno dentro.
March 14, 2016
I really enjoyed reading Sylvia Plath's poetry. Ever since I read The Bell Jar (and then googled Sylvia and learned more about her) I have been fascinated by her life and her work. I also loved her book of unabridged journals. So when I saw there was a book of her poetry I just had to buy it and read it.
Sylvia Plath's writing is just so addicting. Everything flows beautifully and I just loved so many of these poems. I had such a great time reading this book while I was out relaxing in a cabin in the woods. I still wish I was there on vacation reading this book of poetry.
These poems are just so emotional and honest. They speak to me as a woman. There is just something about Sylvia Plath's writing that I connect with at the very core of myself. I'm sure some psychiatrist would have a field day with that, but there it is.
Overall I thought The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath was a great book of poetry that I would recommend to all Sylvia Plath fans, even if you aren't a poetry fan.
January 10, 2020
It was really interesting to read so many of Sylvia’s poems chronologically, and too see her find a voice of her own over the years. While I have to say that most of the poems she wrote before 1959 either bored or puzzled me, as she used very complicated syntax and overembellished them – which resulted in nothing more than a collection of vague and highly impersonal lines –, it was well worth reading this volume for what followed. I mean, here’s her last poem:
The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Then back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and doors bleed
From the street, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Starting from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
(Edge, 5 February 1963)
absolutely chilling.
The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Then back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and doors bleed
From the street, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Starting from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
(Edge, 5 February 1963)
absolutely chilling.
May 18, 2018
It really does not get much better than Sylvia Plath.
January 13, 2011
First: my rating applies to the edition, not the poetry.
After hacking away at this collected poems for the better part of six months, I'm not sure I have any interest in rating the poems. I think, in part, this is due to a certain experience I had in reading, as if this were a history book or a chronicle rather than a work of literature. Of course, while that reveals something (unsavory?) of my predisposition as a reader, I think it at leaves gives a hint as to how the work struck me.
Whereas the work of other poets of Plath's era, and certainly before, can still touch me in the current moment, as living documents, the majority of this volume felt artifactual, archeological. That is not to say there are not poems that have and continue to hit me in the solar plexus like a sledge — "The Rabbit Catcher," for instance, will likely be a treasured poem for as long as I have a relationship with language. But aside from these highlights, I often had the sensation of reading through an excavation.
In my mind, there is no question of Plath's talent; at moments it terrifies me ("There is no mercy in the glitter of cleavers, / The butcher's guillotine that whispers: 'How's this, how's this?'" — "Totem"). Furthermore, I think there is an abundance to be learned from her that is completely separate from her hypertragic biography. But the biography does haunt her collected poems; it butts its forehead into the reading experience and dulls the ear with its wailing. Certain Plath devotees are liable to put a reader off with their fetishization of her horrible life story; I have been put off in the past. Working past such acolytes, I still sensed their demands in editing of this collected poems.
What am I getting at? What is needed?
A new edition of selected poems. Faber has presented, in this volume, an excellent resource for scholars & collectors. But the truth is that practicing poets, interested outsiders, and casual newcomers have no need for most of what this book offers. We don't need or want the juvenilia that closes the book. Most of the end notes gloss Plath's weird ideas of what the poems were "about," or charts biographical context. And, frankly, many of the poems just aren't good — or, rather, they aren't up to the standards that Plath herself sets in other poems.
What we need is an edition of selected poems, not simply Ariel in one form or another, that judiciously picks from all the work, surrenders biography to anything other than a note on the author, and keeps Ted Hughes many arm lengths away (with all due respect, sir). A sensational life story does not write a poem, and neither does such a biography warrant that we collect and document every scribbling ever written by an author. I say, let Sylvia rest, and let the great poems be revived, free of the shackles that bound their author.
That's a bit dramatic, but you'll have to forgive me — I just finished reading a few hundred pages of Sylvia Plath.
After hacking away at this collected poems for the better part of six months, I'm not sure I have any interest in rating the poems. I think, in part, this is due to a certain experience I had in reading, as if this were a history book or a chronicle rather than a work of literature. Of course, while that reveals something (unsavory?) of my predisposition as a reader, I think it at leaves gives a hint as to how the work struck me.
Whereas the work of other poets of Plath's era, and certainly before, can still touch me in the current moment, as living documents, the majority of this volume felt artifactual, archeological. That is not to say there are not poems that have and continue to hit me in the solar plexus like a sledge — "The Rabbit Catcher," for instance, will likely be a treasured poem for as long as I have a relationship with language. But aside from these highlights, I often had the sensation of reading through an excavation.
In my mind, there is no question of Plath's talent; at moments it terrifies me ("There is no mercy in the glitter of cleavers, / The butcher's guillotine that whispers: 'How's this, how's this?'" — "Totem"). Furthermore, I think there is an abundance to be learned from her that is completely separate from her hypertragic biography. But the biography does haunt her collected poems; it butts its forehead into the reading experience and dulls the ear with its wailing. Certain Plath devotees are liable to put a reader off with their fetishization of her horrible life story; I have been put off in the past. Working past such acolytes, I still sensed their demands in editing of this collected poems.
What am I getting at? What is needed?
A new edition of selected poems. Faber has presented, in this volume, an excellent resource for scholars & collectors. But the truth is that practicing poets, interested outsiders, and casual newcomers have no need for most of what this book offers. We don't need or want the juvenilia that closes the book. Most of the end notes gloss Plath's weird ideas of what the poems were "about," or charts biographical context. And, frankly, many of the poems just aren't good — or, rather, they aren't up to the standards that Plath herself sets in other poems.
What we need is an edition of selected poems, not simply Ariel in one form or another, that judiciously picks from all the work, surrenders biography to anything other than a note on the author, and keeps Ted Hughes many arm lengths away (with all due respect, sir). A sensational life story does not write a poem, and neither does such a biography warrant that we collect and document every scribbling ever written by an author. I say, let Sylvia rest, and let the great poems be revived, free of the shackles that bound their author.
That's a bit dramatic, but you'll have to forgive me — I just finished reading a few hundred pages of Sylvia Plath.
May 15, 2023
"Με κατοικεί μια κραυγή.
Κάθε βράδυ φτεροκοπά προς τα έξω.
Ψάχνοντας, με τ΄αγκίστρια της , κάτι ν΄αγαπήσει"
"Αν η σελήνη χαμογελούσε, θα σου έμοιαζε.
Αφήνεις την ίδια εντύπωση
Κάτι όμορφου , αλλά εξοντωτικού.
Και οι δύο είστε μεγάλοι πιστωτές φωτός.
Το στόμα της ολοστρόγγυλο, θρηνεί για τον κόσμο΄ το δικό σου μένει ανεπηρέαστο"
"Αυτό είναι το υγρό μέσα στο οποίο συναντάμε ο ένας τον άλλον,
Αυτή η ακτινοβολούσα άλως που μοιάζει ν΄ανασαίνει
Και αφήνει τις σκιές μας να φθίνουν
Ώσπου να τις ξαναπροβάλει
Τεράστιες, βίαιοι γίγαντες πάνω στον τοίχο.
Με το άναμμα ενός σπίρτου πραγματοποιείσαι"
Κάθε βράδυ φτεροκοπά προς τα έξω.
Ψάχνοντας, με τ΄αγκίστρια της , κάτι ν΄αγαπήσει"
"Αν η σελήνη χαμογελούσε, θα σου έμοιαζε.
Αφήνεις την ίδια εντύπωση
Κάτι όμορφου , αλλά εξοντωτικού.
Και οι δύο είστε μεγάλοι πιστωτές φωτός.
Το στόμα της ολοστρόγγυλο, θρηνεί για τον κόσμο΄ το δικό σου μένει ανεπηρέαστο"
"Αυτό είναι το υγρό μέσα στο οποίο συναντάμε ο ένας τον άλλον,
Αυτή η ακτινοβολούσα άλως που μοιάζει ν΄ανασαίνει
Και αφήνει τις σκιές μας να φθίνουν
Ώσπου να τις ξαναπροβάλει
Τεράστιες, βίαιοι γίγαντες πάνω στον τοίχο.
Με το άναμμα ενός σπίρτου πραγματοποιείσαι"
May 9, 2012
So it turns out "The Collected Poems" means literally everything Sylvia Plath EVER wrote. It's arranged more or less chronologically, and when I was about halfway through the book I was all set to only give it three stars. At 2/3 of the way through, it had gone up to four stars, and by the last 20-30 pages there was no way it was getting anything less than five.
Although her earlier poems aren't to my particular taste, and you can tell her command of the craft is still developing, it's so wonderful to be able to trace that evolution from obviously talented novice to absolute master. Moving, evocative and completely unforgettable.
Although her earlier poems aren't to my particular taste, and you can tell her command of the craft is still developing, it's so wonderful to be able to trace that evolution from obviously talented novice to absolute master. Moving, evocative and completely unforgettable.
March 7, 2021
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And eat men like air.
I had read a number of these repeatedly over the years, yet the curse of the collected tome often enervates. Much was the case here, specifically with a few of the longer narrative poems, ones which struck me as burdensome in just the same manner as how Robert Frost fails. Each line convinced me why I prefer Anne Sexton.
I rise with my red hair
And eat men like air.
I had read a number of these repeatedly over the years, yet the curse of the collected tome often enervates. Much was the case here, specifically with a few of the longer narrative poems, ones which struck me as burdensome in just the same manner as how Robert Frost fails. Each line convinced me why I prefer Anne Sexton.
June 9, 2023
Τα λόγια περιττεύουν μπροστά στη συναισθηματική, αυθεντικά μελαγχολική γραφή της Sylvia Plath. Μέσα από την ποίησή της φαίνεται πόσο βαθιά την επηρέασε ο θάνατος του πατέρα της, η εγκυμοσύνη, ο χωρισμός και φυσικά ο αυτοαφανισμός της. Γενικά ο θάνατος έχει την πρωτοκαθεδρία στα περισσότερα ποιήματά της σε μία εποχή που δεν υπήρχε η σημερινή ενσυναίσθηση για τις ψυχικές διαταραχές. Η ίδια η Sylvia είναι το ποιητικό υποκείμενο, σχεδόν όλα τα ρήματα είναι σε χρόνο ενεστώτα για να προβάλλεται η ποιητική πράξη εδώ ζωντανά στο ποιητικό παρόν. Οι δημιουργίες της που με επηρέασαν περισσότερο ήταν οι εξής: ''Καθρέφτης'', ''Τρεις γυναίκες'', ''Το κυπαρίσσι και το φεγγάρι'', ''Daddy'' και ''Η άφιξη του κουτιού με τις μέλισσες''.
Καθρέφτης
Είμαι ασημένιος και ακριβής. Δεν έχω προκαταλήψεις.
Ότι κι αν δω το καταπίνω αυτομάτως,
Ακριβώς όπως είναι, αθάμπωτο από αγάπη ή απαρέσκεια.
Δεν είμαι σκληρός μόνο ειλικρινής-
Το μάτι ενός μικρού θεού, τετραγωνισμένο.
Τον περισσότερο καιρό αυτοσυγκεντρώνομαι στον απέναντι τοίχο.
Είναι ροζ, με στίγματα. Τον έχω κοιτάξει τόσο πολύ
Που νομίζω πως είναι μέρος της καρδιάς μου. Αλλά τρεμοσβήνει.
Πρόσωπα και σκοτάδι μας χωρίζουν ξανά και ξανά.
Τώρα είμαι μια λίμνη. Μια γυναίκα σκύβει από πάνω μου,
Ψάχνοντας στις εκτάσεις μου για το ποιά είναι στ`αλήθεια.
Έπειτα γυρνά σ`αυτούς τους ψεύτες, στα κεριά ή το φεγγάρι.
Daddy
Σε ένα μαυροπίνακα στέκεσαι, μπαμπά,
Στη φωτογραφία που κρατώ,
Ένα σημάδι στο σαγόνι αντί στο πόδι,
Αλλά δεν είσαι λιγότερο διάβολος γι' αυτό,
Όχι λιγότερο από το σκοτεινό άντρα
Που την όμορφη πορφυρή καρδιά μου έκοψε στα δυο.
Ήμουν δέκα χρονώ όταν σε βάλανε στον τάφο.
Και στα είκοσι προσπάθησα να σκοτωθώ
Για να σε ξαναβρώ, για να σε ξαναβρώ.
Μπορούσα ακόμα και στα κόκαλα σου να αρκεστώ.
Καθρέφτης
Είμαι ασημένιος και ακριβής. Δεν έχω προκαταλήψεις.
Ότι κι αν δω το καταπίνω αυτομάτως,
Ακριβώς όπως είναι, αθάμπωτο από αγάπη ή απαρέσκεια.
Δεν είμαι σκληρός μόνο ειλικρινής-
Το μάτι ενός μικρού θεού, τετραγωνισμένο.
Τον περισσότερο καιρό αυτοσυγκεντρώνομαι στον απέναντι τοίχο.
Είναι ροζ, με στίγματα. Τον έχω κοιτάξει τόσο πολύ
Που νομίζω πως είναι μέρος της καρδιάς μου. Αλλά τρεμοσβήνει.
Πρόσωπα και σκοτάδι μας χωρίζουν ξανά και ξανά.
Τώρα είμαι μια λίμνη. Μια γυναίκα σκύβει από πάνω μου,
Ψάχνοντας στις εκτάσεις μου για το ποιά είναι στ`αλήθεια.
Έπειτα γυρνά σ`αυτούς τους ψεύτες, στα κεριά ή το φεγγάρι.
Daddy
Σε ένα μαυροπίνακα στέκεσαι, μπαμπά,
Στη φωτογραφία που κρατώ,
Ένα σημάδι στο σαγόνι αντί στο πόδι,
Αλλά δεν είσαι λιγότερο διάβολος γι' αυτό,
Όχι λιγότερο από το σκοτεινό άντρα
Που την όμορφη πορφυρή καρδιά μου έκοψε στα δυο.
Ήμουν δέκα χρονώ όταν σε βάλανε στον τάφο.
Και στα είκοσι προσπάθησα να σκοτωθώ
Για να σε ξαναβρώ, για να σε ξαναβρώ.
Μπορούσα ακόμα και στα κόκαλα σου να αρκεστώ.
September 9, 2024
It's very clear to me that Sylvia Plath was racist, ableist and fatphobic. She was a classic example of a white privileged white woman finding excitement in the "other" and their tragedy. The way she fetishizes Jews and co-opts cultural pain is weird, to say the least.
June 30, 2025
This collection contains poems written by Sylvia Plath from 1956-1963. It is crammed pack full of her poetry, and it is a must read for those that are interested in her.
My favorite part of this collection was the notes at the end. They provided insight into what was going on in Sylvia’s life when certain poems were created.
“Tale of a Tub” was the most memorable poem. To write something so epic about such a simple task, taking a bath. I loved the imagery. I loved that it reminded me of the bathtime washcloth shark game I used to play when I was child.
“Just how guilty are we when the ceiling
reveals no cracks that can be decoded? when washbowl
maintains it has no more holy calling
than physical ablution, and the towel
dryly disclaims that fierce troll faces lurk
in its explicit folds? or when the window,
blind with steam, will not admit the dark
which shrouds our prospects in ambiguous shadow?”
There were many more that I saved because I also liked them. I could fill a review with quotes but won’t because I owe the world a break from my Plath obsession.
Four stars to a book worth collecting.
My favorite part of this collection was the notes at the end. They provided insight into what was going on in Sylvia’s life when certain poems were created.
“Tale of a Tub” was the most memorable poem. To write something so epic about such a simple task, taking a bath. I loved the imagery. I loved that it reminded me of the bathtime washcloth shark game I used to play when I was child.
“Just how guilty are we when the ceiling
reveals no cracks that can be decoded? when washbowl
maintains it has no more holy calling
than physical ablution, and the towel
dryly disclaims that fierce troll faces lurk
in its explicit folds? or when the window,
blind with steam, will not admit the dark
which shrouds our prospects in ambiguous shadow?”
There were many more that I saved because I also liked them. I could fill a review with quotes but won’t because I owe the world a break from my Plath obsession.
Four stars to a book worth collecting.
January 15, 2023
Se “La campana di vetro” può essere considerato semi-autobiografico, è qui - nelle poesie – che viene fuori il ritratto autentico di un’anima aggraziata ma profondamente infelice e incompresa, annichilita dal gravoso fardello della solitudine. La sua spiccata sensibilità – soprattutto immaginativa - è parte integrante dell'immensa statura poetica che la caratterizza. I suoi versi sono una vorticosa girandola di emozioni.
Ogni altra parola è superflua.
Ogni altra parola è superflua.
December 10, 2024
My rating comes as a surprise to no one, since Sylvia Plath has a unique way of capturing my attention. The first time I read Ariel, I was 18. Now, being 22 and diving into her work again, equipped with significantly more knowledge about her life and development as a writer, was magical. This collection deserved every single prize it won (and then some).
December 8, 2024
La lettura dell'opera completa di Sylvia Plath mi accompagna da marzo, e adesso le mie giornate sembreranno spoglie senza la loro dose giornaliera di poesia plathiana
April 1, 2021
What do most know about Sylvia Plath? The poetess who killed herself with her head in an oven?
I would not argue that it is possible to read Plath without bearing in mind that she was an emotionally and psychologically troubled person — indeed, a large number of her poems are layered with such psychological intensity that perhaps allowed her to conjure startling but impactful imagery from line to line. However, for me, Plath’s allure lies not simply in the Freudian whirlpool that so characterises her life (especially her strange relationship with her father) but in that unique voice of hers/her personas. My favourite poems of hers are those which lean towards the confessional in style — the voice and the themes — and which contain such pithy lines as “Father, this thick air is murderous. I would breathe water.” Below are a few exceptional excerpts:
1. Resolve
“today I will not / disenchant my twelve black-gowned examiners / or bunch my fist / in the wind’s sneer”
2. Black rook in rainy weather
“I do not expect a miracle / or an accident // to set the sight on fire / in my eye, nor seek / any more in the desultory weather some design / but let spotted leaves fall as they fall / without ceremony, or portent”
3. Old Ladies’ Home
“From beds boxed-in like coffins / The bonneted ladies grin. / And death, that bald-head buzzard, / stalls in halls where the lamp wick / shortens with each breath drawn.”
4. The Sleepers
“Ousted from that warm bed / we are a dream they dream / their eyelids keep the shade / no harm can come to them / we cast our skins and slide / into another time”
5. Mushrooms
“We shall by morning / inherit the earth / our foot’s in the door”
6. Two campers in cloud country
“Planets pulse in the lake like bright amoebas / the pines blot our voices up in their lightest sights... we’ll wake blank-brained as water in the dawn”
7. Mirror
“In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman / rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish”
8. Three Women
“It is the exception that interests the devil / it is the exception that climbs the sorrowful hill / or sits in the desert and hurts his mother’s heart / I will him to be common / to love me as I love him / and to marry what he wants and where he will”
9. Paralytic
“My mind a rock / no fingers to grip, no tongue / my god the iron lung / that loves me, pumps / my two / dust bags in and out / will not / let me relapse / while the day outside glides by like ticker tape”
I would not argue that it is possible to read Plath without bearing in mind that she was an emotionally and psychologically troubled person — indeed, a large number of her poems are layered with such psychological intensity that perhaps allowed her to conjure startling but impactful imagery from line to line. However, for me, Plath’s allure lies not simply in the Freudian whirlpool that so characterises her life (especially her strange relationship with her father) but in that unique voice of hers/her personas. My favourite poems of hers are those which lean towards the confessional in style — the voice and the themes — and which contain such pithy lines as “Father, this thick air is murderous. I would breathe water.” Below are a few exceptional excerpts:
1. Resolve
“today I will not / disenchant my twelve black-gowned examiners / or bunch my fist / in the wind’s sneer”
2. Black rook in rainy weather
“I do not expect a miracle / or an accident // to set the sight on fire / in my eye, nor seek / any more in the desultory weather some design / but let spotted leaves fall as they fall / without ceremony, or portent”
3. Old Ladies’ Home
“From beds boxed-in like coffins / The bonneted ladies grin. / And death, that bald-head buzzard, / stalls in halls where the lamp wick / shortens with each breath drawn.”
4. The Sleepers
“Ousted from that warm bed / we are a dream they dream / their eyelids keep the shade / no harm can come to them / we cast our skins and slide / into another time”
5. Mushrooms
“We shall by morning / inherit the earth / our foot’s in the door”
6. Two campers in cloud country
“Planets pulse in the lake like bright amoebas / the pines blot our voices up in their lightest sights... we’ll wake blank-brained as water in the dawn”
7. Mirror
“In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman / rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish”
8. Three Women
“It is the exception that interests the devil / it is the exception that climbs the sorrowful hill / or sits in the desert and hurts his mother’s heart / I will him to be common / to love me as I love him / and to marry what he wants and where he will”
9. Paralytic
“My mind a rock / no fingers to grip, no tongue / my god the iron lung / that loves me, pumps / my two / dust bags in and out / will not / let me relapse / while the day outside glides by like ticker tape”
December 10, 2022
I have read and liked Bell jar by Sylvia Plath and I thought I would love to read more by her.
According to the Pulitzer Prize-winning (won in 1982 for poems) The Collected Poems volume published in 1981, Sylvia Plath wrote 445 poems. Wow !!!
She was famous for her poems after all and yes I liked few but nothing stood out as wow,this is amazing.
Now I'm going to give it a reread. Might change my reading after that .
Few poems that I found good
“I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches? -
Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
From the poem "Elm", 19 April 1962”
“I
I walk alone;
The midnight street
Spins itself from under my feet;
My eyes shut
These dreaming houses all snuff out;
Through a whim of mine
Over gables the moon's celestial onion
Hangs high.
I
Make houses shrink
And trees diminish
By going far; my look's leash
Dangles the puppet-people
Who, unaware how they dwindle,
Laugh, kiss, get drunk,
Nor guess that if I choose to blink
They die.
I
When in good humour,
Give grass its green
Blazon sky blue, and endow the sun
With gold;
Yet, in my wintriest moods, I hold
Absolute power
To boycott color and forbid any flower
To be.
I
Know you appear
Vivid at my side,
Denying you sprang out of my head,
Claiming you feel
Love fiery enough to prove flesh real,
Though it's quite clear
All your beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear,
From me.
"Soliloquy of the Solipsist", 1956”
According to the Pulitzer Prize-winning (won in 1982 for poems) The Collected Poems volume published in 1981, Sylvia Plath wrote 445 poems. Wow !!!
She was famous for her poems after all and yes I liked few but nothing stood out as wow,this is amazing.
Now I'm going to give it a reread. Might change my reading after that .
Few poems that I found good
“I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches? -
Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
From the poem "Elm", 19 April 1962”
“I
I walk alone;
The midnight street
Spins itself from under my feet;
My eyes shut
These dreaming houses all snuff out;
Through a whim of mine
Over gables the moon's celestial onion
Hangs high.
I
Make houses shrink
And trees diminish
By going far; my look's leash
Dangles the puppet-people
Who, unaware how they dwindle,
Laugh, kiss, get drunk,
Nor guess that if I choose to blink
They die.
I
When in good humour,
Give grass its green
Blazon sky blue, and endow the sun
With gold;
Yet, in my wintriest moods, I hold
Absolute power
To boycott color and forbid any flower
To be.
I
Know you appear
Vivid at my side,
Denying you sprang out of my head,
Claiming you feel
Love fiery enough to prove flesh real,
Though it's quite clear
All your beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear,
From me.
"Soliloquy of the Solipsist", 1956”
May 19, 2019
P(l)athology
Biblimythological poetry
composed by looking-glass fingertips that reveal,
reflect the gothic in her-you-me. Her Hermes
hovers
emasculated, molting
while molding her soul, bound as 'collected'
but rather selected "to laud such man's blood!"
Self-proclaimed editor or profaned self-redactor?
Only the Hughes-abused knows.
Regardless, blessed is the reader of her meter,
her versed verse.
Each word ablution's evolution to transmogrify the mind
from angelic bog to morbid garden,
or vice versa,
bridged by a byway of
Christian bristles,
sisyphean thistles, and a
"forked/ Firework of fronds."
Listen to the hymns, those auditions of shadows cast by him-her-all,
presaging not adderall but lithium.
Listen to the din, "[he] quit her at cock's crowing," hormoanal de-spirit udone.
"'Fond phantom,' cried shocked Father Shawn."
It's sung, from wisp of whispurr
to dream of (s)cream, listing lilt, so listen
to the human cues that cure curses and curse cures.
Scrutinize epicurean chiaroscuros with a penchant for sentient dimensions.
Linger over the linguistic triptychs for lunatics.
On high, erudite Aphrodite whirls emerald arrows to pierce the senses of those in Seine.
A swath of poems perfunctorily pastoral, florist obsessed, but
highly redeemed for what comes before, after, some between.
The epilogue a piquing prelude to the symphony that came before.
The book itself should be shaped like a rhododendron dodecahedron
festooned with festering, post-fenestration figures.
Semi-evil Victorian voice announces that
"The dark is melting. We touch like cripples."
Biblimythological poetry
composed by looking-glass fingertips that reveal,
reflect the gothic in her-you-me. Her Hermes
hovers
emasculated, molting
while molding her soul, bound as 'collected'
but rather selected "to laud such man's blood!"
Self-proclaimed editor or profaned self-redactor?
Only the Hughes-abused knows.
Regardless, blessed is the reader of her meter,
her versed verse.
Each word ablution's evolution to transmogrify the mind
from angelic bog to morbid garden,
or vice versa,
bridged by a byway of
Christian bristles,
sisyphean thistles, and a
"forked/ Firework of fronds."
Listen to the hymns, those auditions of shadows cast by him-her-all,
presaging not adderall but lithium.
Listen to the din, "[he] quit her at cock's crowing," hormoanal de-spirit udone.
"'Fond phantom,' cried shocked Father Shawn."
It's sung, from wisp of whispurr
to dream of (s)cream, listing lilt, so listen
to the human cues that cure curses and curse cures.
Scrutinize epicurean chiaroscuros with a penchant for sentient dimensions.
Linger over the linguistic triptychs for lunatics.
On high, erudite Aphrodite whirls emerald arrows to pierce the senses of those in Seine.
A swath of poems perfunctorily pastoral, florist obsessed, but
highly redeemed for what comes before, after, some between.
The epilogue a piquing prelude to the symphony that came before.
The book itself should be shaped like a rhododendron dodecahedron
festooned with festering, post-fenestration figures.
Semi-evil Victorian voice announces that
"The dark is melting. We touch like cripples."
December 23, 2017
فتشت كثيرا علي هذا الكتاب ... اعتقد انه يجمع جميع اشعار سيلفيا بلاث او اغلبها، رغم ان القراءة لسيلفيا بلاث تتركني في حالة نفسية سيئة ولكنها تستحق المخاطرة ... ضعت ووجدت نفسي الاف المرات اثناء قراءتي هذا الكتاب .... دخلت في دوامات نور وظلام لا نهائية ....
احببت جميع الاشعار القصيرة والطويلة، احببت بطريقة خاصة
lady Lazarus
pursuit
i am vertical
the thin people
قرأتها نسخة كيندل وساحرص علي اقتناء نسخه ورقيه .. لانني اريد تحديد الاشعار التي احببتها بشكل خاص ...
احببت جميع الاشعار القصيرة والطويلة، احببت بطريقة خاصة
lady Lazarus
pursuit
i am vertical
the thin people
قرأتها نسخة كيندل وساحرص علي اقتناء نسخه ورقيه .. لانني اريد تحديد الاشعار التي احببتها بشكل خاص ...
September 9, 2017
«Faremo come se fosse stato soltanto un brutto sogno.»
Un brutto sogno.
Per chi è chiuso sotto una campana di vetro, vuoto e bloccato come un bambino nato morto, il brutto sogno è il mondo.
Io ricordavo tutto.
Forse l'oblio, come una neve gentile, avrebbe dovuto attutire e coprire tutto.
Ma quelle cose facevano parte di me. Erano il mio paesaggio.
Sylvia Plath, La campana di vetro
Un brutto sogno.
Per chi è chiuso sotto una campana di vetro, vuoto e bloccato come un bambino nato morto, il brutto sogno è il mondo.
Io ricordavo tutto.
Forse l'oblio, come una neve gentile, avrebbe dovuto attutire e coprire tutto.
Ma quelle cose facevano parte di me. Erano il mio paesaggio.
Sylvia Plath, La campana di vetro
September 26, 2024
I am accused. I dream of massacres.
I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them,
Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives
Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
It is a love of death that sickens everything.
A dead sun stains the newsprint. It is red.
I lose life after life. The dark earth drinks them.
She is the vampire of us all. So she supports us,
Fattens us, is kind. Her mouth is red.
I know her. I know her intimately —
Old winter-face, old barren one, old time bomb.
Men have used her meanly. She will eat them.
Eat them, eat them, eat them in the end.
The sun is down. I die. I make a death.
To juggle with, my love, when the sky falls.
I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them,
Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives
Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
It is a love of death that sickens everything.
A dead sun stains the newsprint. It is red.
I lose life after life. The dark earth drinks them.
She is the vampire of us all. So she supports us,
Fattens us, is kind. Her mouth is red.
I know her. I know her intimately —
Old winter-face, old barren one, old time bomb.
Men have used her meanly. She will eat them.
Eat them, eat them, eat them in the end.
The sun is down. I die. I make a death.
To juggle with, my love, when the sky falls.
June 24, 2013
Un oasis intelectual. Los poemas de Sylvia Plath son como las cicatrices, escritos en tinta indeleble. Sus poemas están colgados del techo, desgarran lentamente la carne del lector, igual que los ganchos de un matadero. Son los poemas de alguien que no pudo con la vida, de alguien que no sobrevivió. De alguien que es íntima amiga de la tristeza. La desolación habla a través de los versos de Sylvia.
Soy vertical.
Pero preferiría ser horizontal.
No soy un árbol con las raíces en la tierra
absorbiendo minerales y amor materno
para que cada marzo florezcan las hojas,
ni soy la belleza del jardín
de llamativos colores que atrae exclamaciones de admiración
ignorando que pronto perderá sus pétalos.
Comparado conmigo, un árbol es inmortal
y una flor, aunque no tan alta, es más llamativa,
y quiero la longevidad de uno y la valentía de la otra.
Esta noche, bajo la luz infinitesimal de las estrellas,
los árboles y las flores han derramado sus olores frescos.
Camino entre ellos, pero no se dan cuenta.
A veces pienso que cuando estoy durmiendo
me debo parecer a ellos a la perfección,
oscurecidos ya los pensamientos.
Para mí es más natural estar tendida.
Es entonces cuando el cielo y yo conversamos con libertad,
y así seré útil cuando al fin me tienda:
entonces los árboles podrán tocarme por una vez,
y las flores tendrán tiempo para mí.
Soy vertical.
Pero preferiría ser horizontal.
No soy un árbol con las raíces en la tierra
absorbiendo minerales y amor materno
para que cada marzo florezcan las hojas,
ni soy la belleza del jardín
de llamativos colores que atrae exclamaciones de admiración
ignorando que pronto perderá sus pétalos.
Comparado conmigo, un árbol es inmortal
y una flor, aunque no tan alta, es más llamativa,
y quiero la longevidad de uno y la valentía de la otra.
Esta noche, bajo la luz infinitesimal de las estrellas,
los árboles y las flores han derramado sus olores frescos.
Camino entre ellos, pero no se dan cuenta.
A veces pienso que cuando estoy durmiendo
me debo parecer a ellos a la perfección,
oscurecidos ya los pensamientos.
Para mí es más natural estar tendida.
Es entonces cuando el cielo y yo conversamos con libertad,
y así seré útil cuando al fin me tienda:
entonces los árboles podrán tocarme por una vez,
y las flores tendrán tiempo para mí.
May 16, 2023
4'5 ⭐
Plath es capaz de explorar los rincones más oscuros de la mente. Resulta imposible no sentir su dolor, su angustia y sus ansias de libertad. Lo bueno de esta recopilación (además de contener a pié de página la versión original) es que te ayuda a apreciar sus diferentes etapas, ver esa progresión desde los primeros poemas hasta los más maduros, en los que su voz poética se vuelve mucho más contundente.
La poesía de esta mujer es un testimonio de la capacidad humana para transformar el dolor en arte, y del poder de la poesía para dar palabras a lo que a menudo no puede ser descrito.
“Esta noche, bajo la luz infinitesimal de los astros,
Los árboles y las flores han estado esparciendo sus aromas frescos.
Yo paseo entre ellos, aunque no se percaten de mi presencia.
A veces pienso que cuando duermo
Es cuando más me parezco a ellos
Desvanecidos ya los pensamientos.
En mí, el estar tendida, es algo connatural.
Entonces el cielo y yo conversamos abiertamente.
Y seguro que seré más útil cuando al fin me tienda para siempre
Entonces quizás los árboles me toquen por una vez,
Y las flores, finalmente, tengan tiempo para mí.”
“Y yo una mujer que sonríe.
Tengo sólo treinta años.
Y como gato he de morir nueve veces.
[...]
Morir
Es un arte, como cualquier otra cosa.
Yo lo hago excepcionalmente bien.
[...]
Desde las cenizas me levanto
Con mi cabello rojo
Y devoro hombres como el aire.”
Plath es capaz de explorar los rincones más oscuros de la mente. Resulta imposible no sentir su dolor, su angustia y sus ansias de libertad. Lo bueno de esta recopilación (además de contener a pié de página la versión original) es que te ayuda a apreciar sus diferentes etapas, ver esa progresión desde los primeros poemas hasta los más maduros, en los que su voz poética se vuelve mucho más contundente.
La poesía de esta mujer es un testimonio de la capacidad humana para transformar el dolor en arte, y del poder de la poesía para dar palabras a lo que a menudo no puede ser descrito.
“Esta noche, bajo la luz infinitesimal de los astros,
Los árboles y las flores han estado esparciendo sus aromas frescos.
Yo paseo entre ellos, aunque no se percaten de mi presencia.
A veces pienso que cuando duermo
Es cuando más me parezco a ellos
Desvanecidos ya los pensamientos.
En mí, el estar tendida, es algo connatural.
Entonces el cielo y yo conversamos abiertamente.
Y seguro que seré más útil cuando al fin me tienda para siempre
Entonces quizás los árboles me toquen por una vez,
Y las flores, finalmente, tengan tiempo para mí.”
“Y yo una mujer que sonríe.
Tengo sólo treinta años.
Y como gato he de morir nueve veces.
[...]
Morir
Es un arte, como cualquier otra cosa.
Yo lo hago excepcionalmente bien.
[...]
Desde las cenizas me levanto
Con mi cabello rojo
Y devoro hombres como el aire.”
Read
April 30, 2025la obsesión por la muerte, lo mortal, lo bello, las rupturas y el abandono, los hospitales como infiernos blancos a los que ir a desangrarse, la tranquilidad como una vuelta a casa a escuchar las vacas pastar (el camino a la mediocridad que te aleja de las penurias, la alabanza al centro de la curva de gauss, la huída del demonio de lo extraordinario), la indiferencia de los árboles y de la HIERBA, mucha hierba verdeante y verdiflua que forma el suelo de los recuerdos y los recuerdos, que son el suelo de las obsesiones
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