♥ Loving Sylvia Plath ♥
Submitted by Olivia from fatsocake.tumblr.com:
This is Mr. Poundcake. He appreciates Sylvia’s expressive use of imagery and irony.

Submitted by Olivia from fatsocake.tumblr.com:

This is Mr. Poundcake. He appreciates Sylvia’s expressive use of imagery and irony.

spookychic:

Like mother like son. #ariel #plath

spookychic:

Like mother like son. #ariel #plath

via
Val Denham reading the 1976 Faber paperback edition of Ariel

via

Val Denham reading the 1976 Faber paperback edition of Ariel

via
Dakota Fanning reading the 1996 Harper paperback edition of Ariel on set of the movie Very Good Girls in July 2012
***
I’m not sure if this was a private read or if the book will be featured in the movie, if so, we can add it to our “Sylvia Plath referenced in pop culture” list as soon as the movie will be available. ;)

via

Dakota Fanning reading the 1996 Harper paperback edition of Ariel on set of the movie Very Good Girls in July 2012

***

I’m not sure if this was a private read or if the book will be featured in the movie, if so, we can add it to our “Sylvia Plath referenced in pop culture” list as soon as the movie will be available. ;)


Sylvia Plath’s Ariel

Part of London Lit Festival 13
Royal Festival Hall, Southbank Centre
Belvedere Rd, London SE1 8XX, United Kingdom
 Sunday 26 May 2013, 7:30pm

You can book your tickets here!

Prices £25 £20 £15 £10 
Booking Fee £1.75 (Members £0.00)
Concessions 50% off (Limited Availability)

"Sylvia Plath died 50 years ago leaving a black binder of poems that was to become her final, posthumously published collection, Ariel.
Now 40 leading female poets and performers read one poem each from the restored edition of the final unedited manuscript in an evening introduced by Plath’s daughter, Frieda Hughes.
The readers are - Maureen Beattie, Emily Berry, Lily Bevan, Samantha Bond, Emily Bruni, Kirsty Bushell, Anna Chancellor, Gillian Clarke, Julia Copus, Claire-Louise Cordwell, Imtiaz Dharker, Amanda Drew, Noma Dumezweni, Ruth Fainlight, Kate Fahy, Vicki Feaver, Deborah Findlay, Stella Gonet, Haydn Gwynne, Victoria Hamilton, Anastasia Hille, Joan Iyiola, Phyllis Logan, Amy McAllister, Lizzy McInnerny, Pamela Miles, Amy Morgan, Tracy-Ann Oberman, Siobhan Redmond, Miranda Richardson, Jo Shapcott, Jean Sprackland, Gerda Stevenson, Juliet Stevenson, Harriet Walter, and Susan Wooldridge.
'In these poems… Sylvia Plath becomes herself, becomes something imaginary, newly, wildly and subtly created.' (Robert Lowell)”

Sylvia Plath’s Ariel

Part of London Lit Festival 13

Royal Festival Hall, Southbank Centre

Belvedere Rd, London SE1 8XX, United Kingdom

Sunday 26 May 2013, 7:30pm

You can book your tickets here!

Prices £25 £20 £15 £10 

Booking Fee £1.75 (Members £0.00)

Concessions 50% off (Limited Availability)

"Sylvia Plath died 50 years ago leaving a black binder of poems that was to become her final, posthumously published collection, Ariel.

Now 40 leading female poets and performers read one poem each from the restored edition of the final unedited manuscript in an evening introduced by Plath’s daughter, Frieda Hughes.

The readers are - Maureen Beattie, Emily Berry, Lily Bevan, Samantha Bond, Emily Bruni, Kirsty Bushell, Anna Chancellor, Gillian Clarke, Julia Copus, Claire-Louise Cordwell, Imtiaz Dharker, Amanda Drew, Noma Dumezweni, Ruth Fainlight, Kate Fahy, Vicki Feaver, Deborah Findlay, Stella Gonet, Haydn Gwynne, Victoria Hamilton, Anastasia Hille, Joan Iyiola, Phyllis Logan, Amy McAllister, Lizzy McInnerny, Pamela Miles, Amy Morgan, Tracy-Ann Oberman, Siobhan Redmond, Miranda Richardson, Jo Shapcott, Jean Sprackland, Gerda Stevenson, Juliet Stevenson, Harriet Walter, and Susan Wooldridge.

'In these poems… Sylvia Plath becomes herself, becomes something imaginary, newly, wildly and subtly created.' (Robert Lowell)”

tattoolit:

One of my favorite Plath quotes…

***
Lesbos
Viciousness in the kitchen! The potatoes hiss. It is all Hollywood, windowless, The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine, Coy paper strips for doors — Stage curtains, a widow’s frizz. And I, love, am a pathological liar, And my child — look at her, face down on the floor, Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear — Why she is schizophrenic, Her face is red and white, a panic, You have stuck her kittens outside your window In a sort of cement well Where they crap and puke and cry and she can’t hear. You say you can’t stand her, The bastard’s a girl. You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio Clear of voices and history, the staticky Noise of the new. You say I should drown the kittens. Their smell! You say I should drown my girl. She’ll cut her throat at ten if she’s mad at two. The baby smiles, fat snail, From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum. You could eat him. He’s a boy. You say your husband is just no good to you. His Jew-Mama guards his sweet sex like a pearl. You have one baby, I have two. I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair. I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair. We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, Me and you. Meanwhile there’s a stink of fat and baby crap. I’m doped and thick from my last sleeping pill. The smog of cooking, the smog of hell Floats our heads, two venemous opposites, Our bones, our hair. I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill. The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B. Once you were beautiful. In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: ‘Through? Gee baby, you are rare.’ You acted, acted for the thrill. The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee. I try to keep him in, An old pole for the lightning, The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you. He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill, Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue. The blue sparks spill, Splitting like quartz into a million bits. O jewel! O valuable! That night the moon Dragged its blood bag, sick Animal Up over the harbor lights. And then grew normal, Hard and apart and white. The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death. We kept picking up handfuls, loving it, Working it like dough, a mulatto body, The silk grits. A dog picked up your doggy husband. He went on. Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak. I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes, I am packing the babies, I am packing the sick cats. O vase of acid, It is love you are full of. You know who you hate. He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate That opens to the sea Where it drives in, white and black, Then spews it back. Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher. You are so exhausted. Your voice my ear-ring, Flapping and sucking, blood-loving bat. That is that. That is that. You peer from the door, Sad hag. ‘Every woman’s a whore. I can’t communicate.’ I see your cute décor Close on you like the fist of a baby Or an anemone, that sea Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac. I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan’t meet.
—written 16 October 1962

tattoolit:

One of my favorite Plath quotes…

***

Lesbos

Viciousness in the kitchen!
The potatoes hiss.
It is all Hollywood, windowless,
The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine,
Coy paper strips for doors —
Stage curtains, a widow’s frizz.
And I, love, am a pathological liar,
And my child — look at her, face down on the floor,
Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear —
Why she is schizophrenic,
Her face is red and white, a panic,
You have stuck her kittens outside your window
In a sort of cement well
Where they crap and puke and cry and she can’t hear.
You say you can’t stand her,
The bastard’s a girl.
You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio
Clear of voices and history, the staticky
Noise of the new.
You say I should drown the kittens. Their smell!
You say I should drown my girl.
She’ll cut her throat at ten if she’s mad at two.
The baby smiles, fat snail,
From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum.
You could eat him. He’s a boy.
You say your husband is just no good to you.
His Jew-Mama guards his sweet sex like a pearl.
You have one baby, I have two.
I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you.

Meanwhile there’s a stink of fat and baby crap.
I’m doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.
The smog of cooking, the smog of hell
Floats our heads, two venemous opposites,
Our bones, our hair.
I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill.
The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.
Once you were beautiful.
In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: ‘Through?
Gee baby, you are rare.’
You acted, acted for the thrill.
The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
I try to keep him in,
An old pole for the lightning,
The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue.
The blue sparks spill,
Splitting like quartz into a million bits.

O jewel! O valuable!
That night the moon
Dragged its blood bag, sick
Animal
Up over the harbor lights.
And then grew normal,
Hard and apart and white.
The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death.
We kept picking up handfuls, loving it,
Working it like dough, a mulatto body,
The silk grits.
A dog picked up your doggy husband. He went on.

Now I am silent, hate
Up to my neck,
Thick, thick.
I do not speak.
I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes,
I am packing the babies,
I am packing the sick cats.
O vase of acid,
It is love you are full of. You know who you hate.
He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate
That opens to the sea
Where it drives in, white and black,
Then spews it back.
Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher.
You are so exhausted.
Your voice my ear-ring,
Flapping and sucking, blood-loving bat.
That is that. That is that.
You peer from the door,
Sad hag. ‘Every woman’s a whore.
I can’t communicate.’

I see your cute décor
Close on you like the fist of a baby
Or an anemone, that sea
Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac.
I am still raw.
I say I may be back.
You know what lies are for.

Even in your Zen heaven we shan’t meet.

—written 16 October 1962

cannibalancing:

“I do not fear it: I have been there.” - Elm by Sylvia Plath

 ***
Elm
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;  It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.  Is it the sea you hear in me,  Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness? Love is a shadow.  How you lie and cry after it. Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.  All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,  Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf, Echoing, echoing.  Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?  This is rain now, the big hush. And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.  I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets. Scorched to the root My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires. Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs. A wind of such violence Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.  The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radience scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her. I let her go. I let her go  Diminshed and flat, as after radical surgery. How your bad dreams possess and endow me.  I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.  I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me;  All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrevables?  Is it for such I agitate my heart?  I am incapable of more knowledge. What is this, this face  So murderous in its strangle of branches?— Its snaky acids kiss. It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults  That kill, that kill, that kill.
—written 19 April 1962

cannibalancing:

“I do not fear it: I have been there.” - Elm by Sylvia Plath

 ***

Elm

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?

Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, the big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radience scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go
Diminshed and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrevables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?—

Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.

—written 19 April 1962


The Arrival of the Bee Box
 I ordered this, clean wood box Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift. I would say it was the coffin of a midget Or a square baby Were there not such a din in it.
 The box is locked, it is dangerous. I have to live with it overnight And I can’t keep away from it. There are no windows, so I can’t see what is in there. There is only a little grid, no exit.
 I put my eye to the grid. It is dark, dark, With the swarmy feeling of African hands Minute and shrunk for export, Black on black, angrily clambering.
 How can I let them out? It is the noise that appalls me most of all, The unintelligible syllables. It is like a Roman mob, Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!
 I lay my ear to furious Latin. I am not a Caesar. I have simply ordered a box of maniacs. They can be sent back. They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.
 I wonder how hungry they are. I wonder if they would forget me If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree. There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades, And the petticoats of the cherry.
 They might ignore me immediately In my moon suit and funeral veil. I am no source of honey So why should they turn on me? Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.
 The box is only temporary. 
—written 4 October 1962

The Arrival of the Bee Box

I ordered this, clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.

The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can’t keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can’t see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.

I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.

How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.

They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

The box is only temporary.

—written 4 October 1962

You’re
Clownlike, happiest on your hands, Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled, Gilled like a fish. A common-sense Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode. Wrapped up in yourself like a spool, Trawling your dark as owls do. Mute as a turnip from the Fourth Of July to All Fools’ Day, O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail. Farther off than Australia. Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn. Snug as a bud and at home Like a sprat in a pickle jug. A creel of eels, all ripples. Jumpy as a Mexican bean. Right, like a well-done sum. A clean slate, with your own face on.
—Ariel, 1960
***
Picture via The Bex @flickr
Poem via theguardian.co.uk

You’re

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools’ Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.

—Ariel, 1960

***

Picture via The Bex @flickr

Poem via theguardian.co.uk

via socioplath@instagram
via contrariwise.org
This is Adrienne’s tattoo.


Sylvia Plath was has been my favorite writer since I began high school and was my fist true encounter to poetry. I thought it only right to commemorate her talent with a line of her poetry I think truly exemplifies who she was as a writer.

via contrariwise.org

This is Adrienne’s tattoo.

Sylvia Plath was has been my favorite writer since I began high school and was my fist true encounter to poetry. I thought it only right to commemorate her talent with a line of her poetry I think truly exemplifies who she was as a writer.

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it—

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?—

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot—
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart—
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

written
23-29 October 1962

tattoolit:


And like the cat I have nine times to die.
-Lady Lazarus, Sylvia Plath

tattoolit:

And like the cat I have nine times to die.
-Lady Lazarus, Sylvia Plath

whalebreeder:

Brand new tattoo. My favorite Sylvia Plath poem. 

whalebreeder:

Brand new tattoo. My favorite Sylvia Plath poem. 

via - A Piece of Plathery - http://plathery.blogspot.com/
I think Sylvia Plath would have totally enjoyed a cake like this for her birthday! :)

via - A Piece of Plathery - http://plathery.blogspot.com/

I think Sylvia Plath would have totally enjoyed a cake like this for her birthday! :)