LADY LAZARUS

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?--

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

-- written 23-29 October 1962

Auteur: Sylvia Plath

LADY LAZARUS<br /><br />I have done it again.<br />One year in every ten<br />I manage it--<br /><br />A sort of walking miracle, my skin<br />Bright as a Nazi lampshade,<br />My right foot<br /><br />A paperweight,<br />My face a featureless, fine<br />Jew linen.<br /><br />Peel off the napkin<br />O my enemy.<br />Do I terrify?--<br /><br />The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?<br />The sour breath<br />Will vanish in a day.<br /><br />Soon, soon the flesh<br />The grave cave ate will be<br />At home on me<br /><br />And I a smiling woman.<br />I am only thirty.<br />And like the cat I have nine times to die.<br /><br />This is Number Three.<br />What a trash<br />To annihilate each decade.<br /><br />What a million filaments.<br />The peanut-crunching crowd<br />Shoves in to see<br /><br />Them unwrap me hand and foot--<br />The big strip tease.<br />Gentlemen, ladies<br /><br />These are my hands<br />My knees.<br />I may be skin and bone,<br /><br />Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.<br />The first time it happened I was ten.<br />It was an accident.<br /><br />The second time I meant<br />To last it out and not come back at all.<br />I rocked shut<br /><br />As a seashell.<br />They had to call and call<br />And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.<br /><br />Dying<br />Is an art, like everything else.<br />I do it exceptionally well.<br /><br />I do it so it feels like hell.<br />I do it so it feels real.<br />I guess you could say I've a call.<br /><br />It's easy enough to do it in a cell.<br />It's easy enough to do it and stay put.<br />It's the theatrical<br /><br />Comeback in broad day<br />To the same place, the same face, the same brute<br />Amused shout:<br /><br />'A miracle!'<br />That knocks me out.<br />There is a charge<br /><br />For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge<br />For the hearing of my heart--<br />It really goes.<br /><br />And there is a charge, a very large charge<br />For a word or a touch<br />Or a bit of blood<br /><br />Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.<br />So, so, Herr Doktor.<br />So, Herr Enemy.<br /><br />I am your opus,<br />I am your valuable,<br />The pure gold baby<br /><br />That melts to a shriek.<br />I turn and burn.<br />Do not think I underestimate your great concern.<br /><br />Ash, ash--<br />You poke and stir.<br />Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--<br /><br />A cake of soap, <br />A wedding ring,<br />A gold filling.<br /><br />Herr God, Herr Lucifer<br />Beware<br />Beware.<br /><br />Out of the ash<br />I rise with my red hair<br />And I eat men like air.<br /><br />-- written 23-29 October 1962 - Sylvia Plath

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