You're a drummer Sylvia,
the carnage of your life
lies in open stock
for anyone to buy.
You sell us death in poems
bereft of love; you borrow
our breath to line the
hollow of your soul.
The pain's not sweet Sylvia
neither were your thirty years.
If you and Elizabeth Browning
should, by chance, meet
in that starless void
of heaven or hell,
speak to her in flowers
Sylvia, red roses bleed well.
I’m not sure I can go on, but I will try to breathe.
Sylvia Plath's last words
sleep, dear children, sleep
this world she can no longer keep
what life offers, I wish you the best
o dear children rest, please rest
the day awakens with a sigh
for this morning she must die
for her mind is not her own
this you will understand when grown
you will look to the stars and sun
o dear children your life has just begun
I left the kettle hissing,
A blue serpent coiling in the kitchen.
The window’s breath was winter—
It kissed me cold, a mother I never had.
I was a bone in the mouth of the world,
Gnawed down to a pale thought.
The mirror grew teeth—
It ate my face
The room was quiet as paper,
Holding its breath for the pen.
Ink pooled in the corners
Like milk left too long.
The hours no longer spoke—
They only stared,
Thin and pale as candles
Waiting for a match.
My hands folded themselves
As if in prayer,
But the prayer was a stone,
And it would not float.
Some doors open inward,
Others open nowhere.
I found the one
That would not close again.
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.
Mommy
by Sylvia Plath (in her voice and style)
Mommy, your face was a frostbitten moon,
A pale eclipse of warmth I never held.
Your hands were glass, and never swooned
To touch the fever in which I dwelled.
You stitched me shut with lilac thread—
Soft on the skin, but poison-fed.
A nursery built from iron and ash,
Rocking the cradle with a funeral lash.
I drank your dreams from china cups,
Each sip a silence that filled me up.
You danced in pearls I could not wear,
Your laughter stitched to the midnight air.
I dug you up in every verse,
Your voice a hymn, a snarling curse.
Mommy, did you mean to drown me too?
Even now, I wear your hurt like blue.
I bloom in bruises shaped like you.
The raven is too hyperactive at my window pane.
Hear how noisy its wings are; was napping, now knocking knees.
Was about to turn over, with restrictions of the homebound,
As the shadows fly off tight walls, this cot, my face.
I am bothered; I am covered in ebonic feathers.
My eyes tick-tock, they’re grave, and my blue hands they are warmed by ice;
And the cuckoo visits ev’ry half hour as my flesh morphs pale green.
Beneath the moon's melancholy glow,
Inclosed secrets began to grow.
A journey cut, a tale untold,
In the closed path, emotions unfold.
Her words, a labyrinth of despair,
Yet beauty in each poetic layer.
Through the closed path, a haunting maze,
Sylvia danced in poetic daze.
The bell jar's grip, a heavy shroud,
In the closed path, whispers loud.
Yet, in her verse, a resilient spark,
A glimpse of light within the dark.
Through metaphors and poignant lines,
Sylvia's spirit forever shines.
In the closed path, a poignant song,
Resonates, eternally strong.
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.
PLATH ennui 1&2
snzzzzzzzzz ••••• snzzzzzzz ••••••••(yawn)••••••snzzzzz(yawn)snzzz
What she might have been was hidden
Beneath self-destruction and depression
Despair so black it silenced light, war-ridden
Life without purpose, true love forbidden
Leaving darkest doubt lost in the impression
What she might have been was hidden
Her emotions, joy and hope, bedridden
A hole in her soul reflects every transgression
Despair so black it silenced light, war-ridden
Wonders in tears, promise of love, backslidden
Suicide whispering like a taunting obsession
What she might have been was hidden
Love cried out to her but she simply didn’t
Hear its voice – its feeling a wonderous confession
Despair so black it silenced the light, war-ridden
The music of prayers erasing suspicions, unbidden
Warring inside her, awful confusion and aggression
What she might have been was hidden
Despair so black it silenced the light, war-ridden
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 ::
For Sylvia Plath
So where do you float now;
Genius of misery
Keeper and kept
Of those mysterious bees?
You would frown at an epitaph,
I know.
But epitaphs are inevitable,
You know.
Anyone who's read your lines
Wonders how you did it;
How those lines, tiny chains,
Pullled steady, unified;
Dragged you down to face the dark
The deep crevices of the mind
- Or perhaps you dragged them?
I'm Anybody; you're another -
Two mysteries
Linked by tiny chains.
tiny diamonds,
like two tamed supernovae,
in earlobes; a shiny
forehead which would do
to powder; Sylvia Plath
bookmarked with my love letter
31.o8.2019
Writing Challenge 3, August 2019 - Six Lines
Sponsor, Dear Heart- Wiishkobi Ode
Syllables Per Line: 5 7 7 5 7 7
i never knew who she was
until i was called "plath-like";
same obscured thoughts
abundant in poetic frame of mind
i scribble thoughts
like shadows on walls
beneath a pale moon
that play in the corner
where darkness looms
then fade out
before the bloody rise
of cockcrow
i never knew who she was;
back then
they fed us poe
shakespeare
and wadsworth
so minds of children
could grow
i never knew who she was
her ink ran dry
long before i could finger a pen
yet her thoughts
linger in my mind
"plath-like"
In ode to all who succumb
through wayward passages
lined of scribble notes
dripping ink’s savagery,
staining cursive patterns
in Sylvia-like depressions
Jarred bells ring
down lost tunnels
around each dark corner…clang
from steeples we chase
and beds we lie
draped in sadness
and shapes of
poetic happenstance
Tear drop vinaigrette
spiced of leftover lifetimes
drizzled on leafy desperation
bids a tired farewell
before time collects
the deserved rewards
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Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.