I love my rejection slips. They show me I try.

Sylvia Plath

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The blood jet is poetry,
There is no stopping it.

--from "Kindness", written 1 February 1963

Sylvia Plath

Mots clés poetry blood

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Bright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream

Sylvia Plath

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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.

Sylvia Plath

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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid. I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want.

Sylvia Plath

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Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. First, I guess I'm afraid for myself... the old primitive urge for survival. It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity. It all flowed over me with a screaming ache of pain... remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted. When you feel that this may be good-bye, the last time, it hits you harder.

Sylvia Plath

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من یک زن قهرمان حاشیه ای خواهم بود /
متهم نخواهم شد با دکمه های منزوی /
سوراخ های پاشنه جوراب ها /
و چهره های سفید گنگ /
نه ساعت کمبودی در من خواهد یافت و
نه این ستارگان /
اما من کمبودی حس می کنم /
نمی توانم زندگی ام را مهار کنم /
نمی توانم........./

Sylvia Plath

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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.

Sylvia Plath

Mots clés life truth relatable

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Mirror

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful-
The eye of the little god, four cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

--written 1960

Sylvia Plath

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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.

Sylvia Plath

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