Long Plath Poems
Long Plath Poems. Below are the most popular long Plath by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plath poems by poem length and keyword.
I saw their funerals.
Plath.
Sexton.
And somewhere near the back,
mine.
Not my body—
not yet.
But something softer,
more urgent,
more invisible.
The girl
who wrote like them
just to feel seen—
she’s in the box too.
I saw her hair
was finally unbrushed.
Her hands no longer gripped a pen—
they were just hands now.
And no one cried,
because no one knew
she had been dying
this whole time
in silence.
I stood there,
dry-eyed.
Because I knew
this grief
was not for mourning—
but for releasing.
And still,
something in me wept
like a ghost
watching its own
unfinished life.
OH AUGUST!
"The best of summer is gone, and the new fall not yet born--the odd, uneven time of year." Sylvia Plath
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
time drips slow,
like honey from a summer hive.
days stretch like shadows,
dancing with death of summer’s embrace.
amber fields rustle,
their golden stalks heavy with grain.
air, thick with heat and scent of decay,
blooms that once flourished, now wither away.
sun hangs low, a reluctant king
crowned in sun’s afterglow.
cicadas hum their throaty tune,
a chorus of nostalgia in the dilatory heat.
evening sky,
a canvas of bruised twilight hues.
odd, uneven stretch of days,
a paradox wrapped in sun's shimmering haze.
time of harvest, an unsteady grace,
where joy and melancholy intertwine.
Oh August! Bittersweetness lingers,
for I know summer’s end is near.
Dust rises thick with grim, sweat drips from rims
of drug-store eyes he wears to spy.
A parting of the slats, which dangle by twin hooks
This Moses at the sea
will look, and count, to see who's home, who's come, who's gone
Behind a brick façade, what makes one hide
in a beehive's nest of shopworn lives?
Where sorrow turns to peevish glue
in a Hitchcock room that feeds his fear?
Where wind says, "Come outside"!
Should he pull the string, raise the blind
maimed of grime and years? Then what? Then what?
Slacken the cord to scan the scene?
What if the wind asks, "Come outside" ?
They come and go, come and go
Who knows when or why they go
Where do they go, where do they go, where do they go go go
His breath escapes, from thin lips, pursed,
against the glass. as if rehearsed
His youth entombed by flocks of loss…
Thoughts tossed, will rise, then bounce and drift,
within the rift of fear and dread
Webbed with soot, popcorn, and tunes of
long-lost schemes, long lost dreams
He watches those who never cross
an empty hallway, disturb his peace with knocks,
or bells, or locks or smiles
Who never cross discord's threshold,
hold a dish, lend a hand or take the chance to know such cold
Wind whips the trees and claims his mind
and yells again to come outside
Sun's shaded by those leafless chances, slats that sever
all the dreams of ever after…
……and the wind screams stay inside
_____________________________________________________________________
For the contest: "Poe In Plath Style"
Sponsored By July Morning
2/11/18
"The Spite Syllabub"
The daughter
is not
The mother
Sylvia’s bees were
left milk, bread and butter
Plath by name
but not
the daughter’s path
in evolving nature
not the mother
nor the father
Love for art’s sake
Art not for Love’s sake
Amy G. Dala
a spoonful of honey
taken with the medicine
This is Love
The tincture labelled:
The Spite Syllabub
three measures
the mother, the father, the son
take
swallow slowly
survive
daughter is the legacy
daughter learns to run
a lesson in love
Love for art’s sake
Art not for Love’s sake
Done.
(Ladylabyrinth / 2020)
"Moonlight" / FOALS
https://youtu.be/s9DMDulMIz4
1.
"The Grief Equation" /Frieda Hughes, Plath's daughter
https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-27377434?SThisFB&fbclid=IwAR0-rAuEMLovUMiMndUcme2Sic3A-OoDiJkHd857ulBwxlk4KXY3cAxHb9Q
2. "Poetry and Co-dependency" / Plath & Hughes
https://youtu.be/hmArLszft3w
3. "Sylvia Plath" (1 of 6)
https://youtu.be/V1QA985lhSQ
(2 of 6)
https://youtu.be/k1ecb6bRfk0
(3 of 6)
https://youtu.be/uDq0trKqyj8
(4 of 6) Bees
https://youtu.be/7lJPFA2JXnk
(5 of 6)
https://youtu.be/Ef5Zypngx6o
(6 of 6)
https://youtu.be/iK6b39hoeGM
4. Hughes & Assia Wevill (Mistress)
https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/1999/apr/23/features11.g21
5. Frieda Hughes (daughter)
https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2016/may/28/frieda-hughes-i-felt-my-parents-were-stolen
"Frieda Hughes, daughter of poets Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath, is the author of Stonepicker and the Book of Mirrors (Harper Collins, 2009), Forty-Five (Harper Collins, 2006), Waxworks (Harper Collins, 2002), and Wooroloo (Harper Flamingo, 1998). She lives in Wales."
Poetry, books / Frieda Hughes
https://www.friedahughes.com/books.html
"45" / Frieda Hughes
https://www.popmatters.com/forty-five-poems-by-frieda-hughes-2496154001.html
"Moonlight" / FOALS, Lyrics:
https://genius.com/Foals-moonlight-lyrics
Suicide Prevention / Global Hotlines
http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines
Perpetual
Intellectual
Mother
Just another
Smother, then cover
“Too weak to recover”
“Be our good maid”
“Just to be betrayed”
“Don’t give her a voice!”
It’s not love if there’s no choice.
To deal with perpetual self-assertion
The old sisterhood of overexertion!
Sarah Baartman
Wu Zetian
Cleopatra
Anne Boleyn
Joan of Arc
Sophie Scholl
Sylvia Plath
Marilyn Monroe
Micaela Bastidas
Yang Guifei
Fate bestowed a bitter gift
A curse more grave than death’s drift
A life where they were lured and torn
Left gasping, alone, forlorn
Once the universe had lost them
Cruel hands never let them astray
Their trials, none atoned
Their weary souls never left alone
Battles fought, voices shorn
Our bodies spent, our spirits worn
No rest, no vindication, no excursion
Just the classic sisterhood of overexertion!
Stepping through time
The song it was sad, such a desolate melody
We danced to a weeping of horrific dreams
Symphonies lost as the days go uncounted
Steps keep the tempo, delusional scenes
A pirouette frown lingers sorrowed poetically
Her hand is cold, almost lifeless in mine
And in those eyes, distant teardrops are echoing
Staring the ending not far down the line
Depression illumines the dark shadows crawling
Moon light deceives like an absentee star
Violins pluck out a lonely notation
High pitched and weary like bells in a jar
Stepping through time to the lonely days harboring
Soon it will be but a waltzed aftermath
Holding her close midst the demons now battling
This, the last dance, me and Sylvia Plath
2/7/17
Written for the: Stepping Through Time Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kim Rodrigues
Ginsberg
Kerouac
Beat Tap
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde
W. H . Auden
Shakespeare
Wordsworth
Sylvia Plath
Virginia Woolf
Jane Austen
The Bronte Sister's
Authorities of Classic Art
Using ink instead of oils or water to paint a pallet dry
Mixing words into elix
To create book's without pictures
So as the blind can rejoice as well
In words that bind us all together
Life , Loss , Longing , Loving
Belonging , Betrayal
Power , Struggle , Death
Family , Foe's
Verses and Prose
The words that which we daily quote
When called upon to speak
Directly from the heart
While all the while never knowing
They are reciting words from a poem
Or classical works of Art
Of an Author they could not even name
Nor actually in reality know
Wish You Were Here
The hay bales golden, crimsons and ochre sere leaves fallen-- the caw of the Jackdaw
There was no Nightmare until after the fall, painted and swooned like a Fuseli
the clouds float in staccato and layered rich tones: vibrato from sparrows joins the chorus
the suffering alluring woman frail calling on Nature, who chides the mawkish
yet still holds in her in Her own way,
as she ambles and thinks of loves’ long ago
sadness your becoming frailty; weakness a handmaiden, its alluring on you
and there is a mourning call from the maw of the jackdaw
and the skies go crimson, deep ambers until a now purplish blue
and the clouds become negatives as rotation continue-- I see the first star
appear and think of all the females who thought love’s true
“Boot in the face, the brute. brute heart of a brute like you” said Plath
Tolstoy’s males prevail, the amative women frail, and frailty is true
The tender heart a pulpy thing is simply the mind at war
And Nature now turned to dusky twilight transforms her as before
WASH the moon ----> bring some soap
between dirty words might have been born
unlike fetus' now dead
How about Boris Karloff:
makeup for monster actor acting
so funny i died crying life
How fruit flies like bananas
weeping finding out how
my grandfather clock is
so full of bugs - buzz me out
she has many roses inside
the sad mausoleum of
i ate a candy bar called
coochy cooh and had a beer
oh hell holding a mug so cold
she got chills holding it
a freezer!
a hug a smile
a smug denial
a bit pale
a Plath in the oven
can we ever recover?
over drive like a smile.
:: 03.24.2022 ::
Every time I read Pessoa I think
I'm better than he is
Salutations to Fernando Pessoa-Alan Ginsberg
Me, the monocled one, with my foppish belted waistcoat,
I'm not unworthy of you, Walt,
I'm not unworthy of you, my saluting you proves it . . .
Salute to Walt Whitman- Fernando Pessoa
Here from a place in my heart, I salute you,
Female as I am, and unknown,
Should I be praising Emily, Plath or Achmatova?
But you started it Pessoa! with your Alvaro comparing himself
to Whitman, not content to admit to a greatness of your own
and now I find dear Mr. Ginsberg confessing to his greatness in
epic manner, name dropping from Socrates to Michelangelo
admitting faults in the same breath-tracking his enlightenment
and if it was written tongue in cheek, I missed it.
How I admire the great poets that wade into the mainstream
appearing where the greatest wrongs appear, risking even
death for their beliefs, celebrated by those who embrace their
point of view, but what of the unknown poets in the world;
so many whose work is equally astounding, yet unexposed.
Musings on every subject known to man, set down in metaphor
and rhyme makes me wonder what brings immortal recognition
Is it from making a devoted study or from mixing in the right circles?
The hallowed halls of academia or is it some -one's tiny jounal
of handwritten poems waiting for discovery, the enlightenment
of the next century?
Poets, don't often, answer to their fame - writing what's inside of them
for those to come.
Thursday, 06 September, 2001
I wrote this poem one morning (Thursday, 06 September, 2001)after I had read a poem by Alan Ginsberg in the 1995 edition of The Best American Poetry.
I had never seen the poem he referred to "Salute to Whitman"by Fernando Pessoa
and today when I found it on the web Friday, March 01, 2002, I was suprised to see how similar our opening lines were.
Here are current links to the poems mentioned
https://issuu.com/hbarbas/docs/1997_salutations_to_pessoa_ginsberg_h_barbas
https://modpo2015.wordpress.com/poems-of-note/fernando-pessoa-alvaro-de-campos-salute-to-walt-whitman/