Sylvia Poems

Sylvia Plath, Why I Killed My Self

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

Sara Teasdale, Why I Took My Life

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,

Mommy

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

sylvia

sylvia

***this concerns several books I once owned.
Some were written by Rod McKuen, others by
Richard Brautigan, others by others…***

i discovered that words are  
like some decadent dessert
too small to cause harm but too big 
to have a second helping

in the margins of tattered books
were scribbled lines i hoped to someday share
with someone who still had

What If I Have To Live Again

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

Leaves, A Sonnet

J. Smythe with Sylvia Plath

Amongst the trees he walked, a distant form,
She, like the leaves, danced in the summer breeze.
The plan, he'd hoped, would keep her safe and warm,
Suddenly, she demanded her release.
The summer passed, and lost to fleeting grace,
She searched for luck, a four-leaf clover rare,
Amongst the trees, a lost and lonely space,
Where music

Beyond the Pane

Villanelle: "Beyond the Pane"

B. Marquardt-Alexander with Sylvia Plath and Ima Gen (credited to all) 

In sunlight's haze, I stare beyond the pane,

A world outside, where love and joy remain.

Where freedom calls, my heart begins to strain.

The grass whispers secrets, as I lie in vain,

Longing to flee, to leave this heartache's stain.

In sunlight's haze, I stare

My Favorite Women Poet's That Committed Suicide

They sang to stars, to flowers pale with dew,
To hearts that bled beneath the waning moon;
Yet every song they wove from sorrow grew,
Each note a dirge, each rhyme a fading tune.

The world too heavy, pressing on their soul's,
A crown of thorns their tender temples bore;
Love fled like whispers, leaving them to hold,
And silence reigned where

The Sylvia Plyth Effect

Oh, tender heart, too full to bear,
With words like fire and frail despair,
A mind too sharp, a soul too raw,
Seeking solace in the flawed.

Through brittle days and endless night,
You poured your pain in streams of light,
Each verse a glint, a gentle sigh,
Too heavy for a world so dry.

I see your spark, your blazing flame,
Bound by

Sara Teasdale Died

The night swallowed her, quiet as the sea,
Where the waves carried whispers, heavy and deep—
Sara, a ripple lost in the currents of time,
A flicker gone dark beneath the moon's hollow eye.

Oceans curled their backs to kiss the blue sky,
Choked on salt and her long drawn out sighs, drowning what they knew—
Her words, her marrowed bones,

The Abuse Of Sylvia Plyth By Poet Husband Ted Hughes

In her frail hands, she held the flame,
A flicker bright, yet bound to fade—
Her words, like stars, her heart aflame,
Her soul, a scarred and shadowed glade.

Beneath the weight of unseen chains,
She sang her sorrow, soft and low,
While in his eyes were cold remains
Of love long buried in the snow.

He turned from her, a shadow cast,
A

Silver Solitude on Storm's Edge

I emerged / born with a silver pen in hand
…and a tempest raging within.
Words writhe, a serpent's coil
…tightening their grip
A soul adrift in a sea of 
…self-made iniquity.

I buried my daddy 
…in the black shoe
…by the Yew tree
Yes, I, the beekeeper’s daughter
…bearing the weight of hexagonal cells
A hive of memories
…buzzing with secrets.
The bell jar shattered

The Closed Path of Sylvia Plath

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

Sylvia Plath

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

Remembering Sylvia Plath

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

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