Short Plath Poems
Short Plath Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Plath by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Plath by length and keyword.
I often wonder
how Plath could have stayed
a year more longer
and
a million winters with fragrance of spring
would have embraced us
with
warmth of summer!
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
My mother, Sylvia Plath,
These days, I might laugh,
Electric oven, you know!
I was too young to know,
One way to go--
It was too young to know,
I used to live in dread,
I learnt what blackmail meant,
She got cremated, you know,
I was too young to know,
These days, I might laugh,
My mother, Sylvia Plath.
Psychotic pain rips her flesh from bone
Leaving her ragged skeletal shadow brutally
Assaulted by maniacal horror imperceptible to the mentally normal
Temptation conquers her and she welcomes serene death with poisonous applause, gas her invisible
Hangman’s noose-forever silencing her
Sylvia Plath you don't know how much love my pants hath...
For you-- you stupid Jew--
I'll show you the rack and the screw--
With my rod you will know whose God--
For with every shove
You will feel my Love
You can't fathom your problem
(Sylvia Plath killed herself through asphyxiation by sticking her head in a gas stove and turning it on. In so doing, she left two kids-- in some circles that is cowardly.)
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
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.
There's a cold dark place
Sylvia Plath has been inside
A kind of sacrificial lamb
An experiment of sorts
Misogyny for the masses
A Hitler for wives
Dust that, rub this,
Lunch is cold, you shall pay!
Only one way out
Put the lunch in the gas oven
Warm it up real nice and slow
Then turn it up
"Is that better, Heil Hughes"
Misogyny
Footnote
There is speculation whether Ted Hughes drove his former wife Sylvia Plath to suicide
Sylvia Plath,
walked on dangerous path,
she and herself always in a rift,
and she gave death her precious gift.
Sylvia Plath was one poet I was particularly obsessed with as a young girl because I found out that I wrote some of my early poems(the ones I wrote whenever I was depressed) just like hers. I still admired her talent greatly but really scared to make her my mentor, now that I have conquered my depression long time ago. (Hmmmm personal confession)
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.
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