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.
What if I have to live again—
Reborn in the bone-thin hush of grief,
A jawbone grinding air,
My love trailing like a torn dress through corridors
Of someone else's dreams.
You cheated with a mirror.
I saw you smiling at your double,
Kissing her with the lips you pressed
To my forehead after midnight sobs.
How dare you touch her with my name in your mouth?
I held trauma like a child—
Rocked it, fed it milkless mornings.
It grew teeth. It learned your scent.
Now it prowls the house, breaking teacups
And whispering, “He never loved you.”
Unreturned love is a feathered god—
It flutters near the ceiling fan,
Then drops, headless, to the floor.
You never wrote back. Your silence
Was a continent. I crossed it barefoot.
Each night I waited—candlelit,
A saint in curlers, lipstick bleeding.
Time, the drunk uncle, sat beside me,
Rattling his keys, leering,
Telling me you'd never come home.
The sea was shallow. It mocked me.
I went in to drown but hit my knees.
Even death denied me the depth.
Before I leave this to you—
My wrists, my notebooks, my impossible verbs—
Know this: the trees are dead.
The bushes are brown. The wind
Has given up on speech.
I was blind, yes,
But now I choose to look away.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
I think I made you up inside my head.
-Sylvia Plath
I see no reason to rhyme,
but an aching heart,
stranded in the midst of nothingness,
as quill rests in a nameless
coffin, like a trembling corpse.
Words woven in tears
glisten like rain,
amidst rustic pages
within a book of bleeding ink.
While
I, the deep darkness,
ponder, would the moon
ever grieve for the sun,
or will she allow waning
stars to abandon
her doleful realm?
As her face
shifts and turns through
phases of changes-
and her soul like
the weary winter,
withers into white-washed wounds.
I am the hazy mirror to
a lunar goddess.
There shadows betrayed
this cruel conscience,
roaming within forlorn vales,
swirling through a woeful wind,
to nocturnal sonatas.
My mind nestles like
a raven resting
at the treetop,
calling your name into
frozen oblivion,
laced in secluded silence,
echoing amidst obsidian fears.
What would they know
of tainted tales,
obscured within the
mellifluous sound of splitting rain?
I am throned to a fallen sky,
drizzling thorns and splinters
upon bruised toes.
Remember, I love you,
through dreams and more,
stretching my fingers
to your silvery spheres.
Now your palette of romance
paints a blurred portrait
of hallowed misery;
dreams forgotten with time.
There’s no perfect
pigment to correct
my insomniac frame
but metaphors to lure me
back to a colorless
castle above satanic seas.
I’m dancing with demons;
as the pain you’ve fed me,
rushes through chained chambers.
Tonight, the storms may seem calm,
like forests awaiting for a trail
of redolent rainbows,
to flicker upon mourning meadows.
Tomorrow, when I slumber
six feet beneath breathing fiction,
will you rewrite cruel convictions,
that stole my purpose to live?
Maybe darkness sparkles upon
rich rivulets of rippling regrets,
so the cosmos would allow the moon
to rise and beam brighter than
the selfish sun.
Let this poem be the last
amulet to sorrowful sagas,
as I untangle your vines
suffocating my final breath,
this is the eternal demise—
I’m dying before your dead eyes.
Sylvia Plath
I want to be like Sylvia Plath
A talented writer
Someone to be admired
As she read her work
Spending time in the darkness
Writing more and more
Still, her mind saw the beauty of the world
Each of her poems showed the woman
The person she was inside
Someone hidden by the torment of her last years
She knew when she wrote her last words
She knew the moment when it was right to give up
Four hundred of her children survived that moment
You can still find them if you look
A modern master who died way too soon
Sylvia Plath will be remembered for the way she lived
All of the four hundred plus poems she wrote
The way she died
Automobile prohibitive maintenance costs
pitches me pitifully begging for alms
lamenting dog forsaken
melon collie unpleasant circumstances
pleading with outstretched palms
disgraced to beg, perhaps donate
major organ and/or entire body
to ease vehicular qualms
aha... methinks the missus could pose
as ventriloquist after mortician embalms
these lovely bones, but, hmm...
even then post mortem
agitation most likely becalms...
Straitjacketed impasse finds
yours truly going for broke
to nurse our 2009 Hyundai Sonata,
which monetary outlay doth yoke
mine fate heading, née accelerating
at ever increasing speed
emitting plume of smoke
which thick noxious exhaust
would immediately choke
any innocent wheel chaired,
or ambulatory pedestrian,
bicyclist (think Chernobyl),
a nightmare that did woke.
Mein kampf reduced between
a rock and hard place
analogous to trapped betwixt
Scylla and Charybdis
inadequate funds to purchase
newer preowned car,
nor paltry monies to erase
utter nightmare, yes
father did spring me
unexpected mullah, yet
the near future will menace
this dirt poor aging baby boomer,
and his moderately significant other,
she too needs more than solace
lacking gainful employment and
financial resources, maybe brazen
to broadcast such
amidst digital populace
such tsuris (Yiddish meaning
trouble or woe; aggravation)...
Just letting of figurative steam
emblematic of this easily
intimidated fellow with decent
original (long "e") meme
all throughout his life shouldered,
or voluntarily stationed to sidelines
courtesy crème de la crème
topnotch competitors within
human race attain the
supposed "American dream"
or similar facsimile thereof
finding one fool on the hill
gagging at extreme
pauperism, yes mainly linkedin
to series of unfortunate events
(Lemony Snicket would ogle,
envy chiefly hanker ring)
hashtagging me more supreme
regarding amassing adversity.
Thank you stranger near or afar
understanding how or why
Sylvia Plath crafted The Bell Jar
a cult classic, I would never
attempt to duplicate, my par
for the course literary contribution
might... humph earn me one lone star
if ever dabblings in scratching
out feeble efforts courtesy this word Tsar.
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.
Sylvia Plath
?
In this world danced her words, in a poet's breath,
Sylvia lived in realms of love and strife,
Her verses weaved from darkness to bright wreath,
A soul immersed in tumultuous life.
With pen in hand, she bared her inner storms,
A heart so fragile, yet fierce and wild,
Through verses, her emotions took all forms,
Her truth, a gift, for every heart beguiled.
But depression so deep can cloud the brightest of skies,
And pain unseen can haunt a tortured soul,
In tragic end, she bid her last goodbyes,
A spirit broken, seeking to be whole.
Her legacy, a tapestry of pain,
Sylvia Plath, once a great poet that shall forever remain.
The night pressed in with a velvet hand,
I was so tired, you’d understand.
All day the world had sung its song,
But not for me—I did not belong.
The streets were lit, the windows warm,
Yet none could shield me from the storm.
I wore my smile like Sharon's borrowed dress,
While hollow winds moved through my chest.
I thought of spring, I thought of rain,
Of all I loved that could not remain.
There was no anger, only release,
A soft surrender, a will toward peace.
I let the darkness close me in,
It felt like love beneath my skin.
Do not weep, for I am free—sigh,
The world was never meant for me.
"The Stain Crusaders"
Plath left the pages long ago
and Bacharach’s Blue-on-Blue
is an ineffectual softer numb-shade-of-Blue
dear green green Anthropocene
this much is true
with all the I love you’s
the wandering crusaders
are far far removed
sitting atop their soap boxes
sudsing up all the rooms
the silent stains in the poetic
are hard to remove
Ajax came coding unseen
like anticeptic borax
scrubbing out the irrelevance
dear green green Anthropocene
Shakespeare was never here
just a codex with a recipe
we seldom heed
most never read
the page book marked
dog-eared
maybe tomorrow
for the forget:
“My words fly up,
my thoughts remain below:
Words without thoughts
never to heaven go.”
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“We know what we are, but know not what we may be.”
“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
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/
"Heel"
Another language speaks its truth
one’s truth is another’s war
Agamemnon and his achilles
to heel a virtue
to heal a cause
such an odyssey
styx and stones
Clytemnestra, silent
spartan subdued
a loss, a child
innocence stolen, spilt
on another’s alter for Troy
a loss, a sacrifice,
unfavourable weather
a familiar familial war
gods like mortals
mortals like gods
blood, not water spilt
the Odds,
two sides of a coin
another language speaks its truth
one’s truth is another’s war
Iphigénie
spared by Racine
l'orangerie du tribunal
de Versailles,
a muse
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
“Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit.”
RACINE
(“Pursuit”/Sylvia Plath)
heel. (noun, verb, noun dated•informal slang)
heal. (verb)