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Sylvia Plath Short Poems

Famous Short Sylvia Plath Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Sylvia Plath. A collection of the all-time best Sylvia Plath short poems

Words  Create an image from this poem
by Sylvia Plath
After whose stroke the wood rings, 
And the echoes! 
Echoes traveling 
Off from the center like horses.
The sap Wells like tears, like the Water striving To re-establish its mirror Over the rock That drops and turns, A white skull, Eaten by weedy greens.
Years later I Encounter them on the road--- Words dry and riderless, The indefatigable hoof-taps.
While From the bottom of the pool, fixed stars Govern a life.

by Sylvia Plath
 I have no wit, I have no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
A lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is like the falling leaf;
O Jesus, quicken me.

by Sylvia Plath
 Color of lemon, mango, peach,
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, thier balconies
Fine as hand-
Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower pen-sketch.
Tilting with the winds, On arrowy stems, Pineapple-barked, A green crescent of palms Sends up its forked Firework of fronds.
A quartz-clear dawn Inch by bright inch Gilds all our Avenue, And out of the blue drench Of Angels' Bay Rises the round red watermelon sun.

by Sylvia Plath
 the slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hollow of my skull

and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation

I would not remember you

or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these

and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops

a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight

Child  Create an image from this poem
by Sylvia Plath
 Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks, The zoo of the new Whose name you meditate -- April snowdrop, Indian pipe, Little Stalk without wrinkle, Pool in which images Should be grand and classical Not this troublous Wringing of hands, this dark Ceiling without a star.

by Sylvia Plath
 Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only Croak and wither.
Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily Among the pithless reeds.
Flies fail us.
he fen sickens.
Frost drops even the spider.
Clearly The genius of plenitude Houses himself elsewhwere.
Our folk thin Lamentably.

Jilted  Create an image from this poem
by Sylvia Plath
 My thoughts are crabbed and sallow,
My tears like vinegar,
Or the bitter blinking yellow
Of an acetic star.
Tonight the caustic wind, love, Gossips late and soon, And I wear the wry-faced pucker of The sour lemon moon.
While like an early summer plum, Puny, green, and tart, Droops upon its wizened stem My lean, unripened heart.

by Sylvia Plath
 Color floods to the spot, dull purple.
The rest of the body is all washed-out, The color of pearl.
In a pit of a rock The sea sucks obsessively, One hollow thw whole sea's pivot.
The size of a fly, The doom mark Crawls down the wall.
The heart shuts, The sea slides back, The mirrors are sheeted.

by Sylvia Plath
 I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers! This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples, Boarded the train there's no getting off.

by Sylvia Plath
 Better that every fiber crack 
and fury make head, 
blood drenching vivid 
couch, carpet, floor 
and the snake-figured almanac 
vouching you are 
a million green counties from here, 

than to sit mute, twitching so 
under prickling stars, 
with stare, with curse 
blackening the time 
goodbyes were said, trains let go, 
and I, great magnanimous fool, thus wrenched from 
my one kingdom.

by Sylvia Plath
 Full fathom five thy father lies; 
Of his bones are coral made; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes: 
Nothing of him that doth fade 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them,--ding-dong, bell.

by Sylvia Plath
 Among orange-tile rooftops
 and chimney pots
the fen fog slips,
 gray as rats,

while on spotted branch
 of the sycamore
two black rooks hunch
 and darkly glare,

watching for night,
 with absinthe eye
cocked on the lone, late,

by Sylvia Plath
 Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly ---- A gift, a love gift Utterly unasked for By a sky Palely and flamily Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes Dulled to a halt under bowlers.
O my God, what am I That these late mouths should cry open In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

by Sylvia Plath
 Here are two pupils
whose moons of black
transform to cripples
all who look:

each lovely lady
who peers inside
take on the body
of a toad.
Within these mirrors the world inverts: the fond admirer's burning darts turn back to injure the thrusting hand and inflame to danger the scarlet wound.
I sought my image in the scorching glass, for what fire could damage a witch's face? So I stared in that furnace where beauties char but found radiant Venus reflected there.

by Sylvia Plath
 The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine.
Do not accept it.
Acetic acid in a sealed tin? Do not accept it.
It is not genuine.
A ring of gold with the sun in it? Lies.
Lies and a grief.
Frost on a leaf, the immaculate Cauldron, talking and crackling All to itself on the top of each Of nine black Alps.
A disturbance in mirrors, The sea shattering its grey one ---- Love, love, my season.

by Sylvia Plath
 The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow Horse the colour of rust, Hooves, dolorous bells ---- All morning the Morning has been blackening, A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far Fields melt my heart.
They threaten To let me through to a heaven Starless and fatherless, a dark water.

Book: Shattered Sighs