Sylvia Plath


I discovered this poem by Sylvia Plath here:

Childless Woman

The womb
Rattles its pod, the moon
Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.

My landscape is a hand with no lines,
The roads bunched to a knot,
The knot myself,

Myself the rose you acheive—
This body,
This ivory

Ungodly as a child’s shriek.
Spiderlike, I spin mirrors,
Loyal to my image,

Uttering nothing but blood—
Taste it, dark red!
And my forest

My funeral,
And this hill and this
Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.


Plath, uplifting, as usual.  Of course, any depressed person can identify with The Bell JarIt captures perfectly the selfishness, isolation, hopelessness of depression.  I thought this poem was rather beautiful, albeit dark.  The first few lines about the womb resonated a bit.  I have children, but not through my womb.  They did not come from my body, although perhaps I could say they come from my heart.  They come from and go to my heart, they are my heart.  I love them so.  It is still not physical, nor is the poem.

Ta Ta!  Happy Thanksgiving!


One Response to “Sylvia Plath”

  1. Unc Says:

    I read The Bell Jar, the only thing I’ve read by Plath, but came away not so impressed, though now I can’t remember why.

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