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Sylvia Plath

2009/11/26

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!

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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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