Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.
(This quote is probably wrongly attributed to Sylvia Plath)
Utolsó éjszakám volt ez.
Fogtam a magammal hozott ruhaköteget, és egyik végéről kihúztam valamit. Egy pánt nélküli elasztikus kombiné került a kezembe, a sok hordástól elveszítette már a rugalmasságát. Meglengettem, mint valami fegyverszünet fehér lobogóját, egyszer, kétszer… a szél belekapaszkodott, és én elengedtem.
Fehér pille vitorlázott ki az éjszakába, s aztán lassan leereszkedett. Vajon melyik utcába, melyik ház tetejére?
Megint húztam a kötegből.
A szél most is igyekezett, de nem boldogult, így aztán denevérként repült egy árny mindjárt a szemközti felhőkarcoló tetőterasza felé.
Egymás után tápláltam az egész ruhatáramat az éji szélbe, és a szürke foszlányok elvitorláztak szépen, akár egy szeretett lány hamvai, hogy aztán itt meg ott, sose tudom meg, hol, leereszkedjenek New York sötét szívében.
Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk
Flute Notes from a Reedy Pond"
Now coldness comes sifting down, layer after layer,
To our bower at the lily root.
Overhead the old umbrellas of summer Wither like pithless hands.
There is little shelter.
Hourly the eye of the sky enlarges its blank
Dominion. The stars are no nearer. Already frog-mouth and fish-mouth drink The liquor of indolence, and all thing sink Into a soft caul of forgetfulness. The fugitive colors die. Caddis worms drowse in their silk cases,
The lamp-headed nymphs are nodding to sleep like statues.
Puppets, loosed from the strings of the puppetmaster
Wear masks of horn to bed. This is not death, it is something safer. The wingy myths won't tug at us anymore: The molts are tongueless that sang from above the water Of golgotha at the tip of a reed,
And how a god flimsy as a baby's finger
Shall unhusk himself and steer into the air.
But not so odd a name, after all, if you’ve ever read through the phone directory, with its Hyman Diddlebockers and Sasparilla Greenleafs. I read through the phone book once, never mind when, and it satisfied a deep need in me to realize how many people aren’t called Smith.
Sylvia PlathWhen am I going to see you?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Very much."
"Never," I said, and hung up with a resolute click.
The sight of all the food stacked in those kitchens made me dizzy. It's not that we hadn't enough to eat at home, it's just that my grandmother always cooked economy joints and economy meat loafs and had the habit of saying, the minute you lifted the first forkful to your mouth, "I hope you enjoy that, it cost forty-one cents a pound," which always made me feel I was somehow eating pennies instead of Sunday roast.
Sylvia PlathHe could almost have been an American, he was so tan and had such good teeth, but I could tell straight away that he wasn’t. He had what no American man I’ve ever met has had, and that’s intuition.
Sylvia Plath...my writing, my desire to be many lives. I will be a little god in my small way. At home on my desk is the besttstory I've ever written. How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotion, my feeling, by turning it into print? ...Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
Sylvia PlathParalytic
It happens. Will it go on? ----
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.
The night brings violets,
Tapestries of eyes,
Lights,
The soft anonymous
Talkers: 'You all right?'
The starched, inaccessible breast.
Dead egg, I lie
Whole
On a whole world I cannot touch,
At the white, tight
Drum of my sleeping couch
Photographs visit me ----
My wife, dead and flat, in 1920 furs,
Mouth full of pearls,
Two girls
As flat as she, who whisper 'We're your daughters.'
The still waters
Wrap my lips,
Eyes, nose and ears,
A clear
Cellophane I cannot crack.
On my bare back
I smile, a buddha, all
Wants, desire
Falling from me like rings
Hugging their lights.
The claw
Of the magnolia,
Drunk on its own scents,
Asks nothing of life.
Mots clés poetry sickness hospital paralytic
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