Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.

Sylvia Plath

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When I walk out, I am a great event.
I do not have to think, or even rehearse.
What happens in me will happen without attention.
The pheasant stands on the hill;
He is arranging his brown feathers.
I cannot help smiling at what it is I know.
Leaves and petals attend me. I am ready.

Sylvia Plath

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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss?
Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?

Sylvia Plath

Mots clés poetry solitude outsider

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Can nothingness be so prodigal?

Sylvia Plath

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You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?

Sylvia Plath

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All, all, becomes profitable. Education is of the most satisfying and available nature. I am at Smith! Which two years ago was a doubtful dream - and that fortuitous change of dream to reality has led me to desire more, and to lash myself onward - onward.

Sylvia Plath

Mots clés education dreams

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TB is like living with a bomb in your lungs. You just lie around very quietly hoping it won't go off

Sylvia Plath

Mots clés science

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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.

Sylvia Plath

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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

--from "Mad Girl's Love Song: A Villanelle", written 1954

Sylvia Plath

Mots clés reality passion poetry

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Now, lying on my back in bed, I imagined Buddy saying, ‘Do you know what a poem is, Esther?’
‘No, what?’ I would say.
‘A piece of dust.’
Then just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, ‘So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you’re curing. They’re dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.’
And of course Buddy wouldn’t have any answer to that, because what I said was true. People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn’t see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn’t sleep.

Sylvia Plath

Mots clés sylvia-plath the-bell-jar

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