♥ Loving Sylvia Plath ♥
diaisbored:

You are the one Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
Plath please.
#JesseBear #love #sylviaplath #ariel #dog #dogstagram #goldendoodle #smartypants #rayban #clubmaster

diaisbored:

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.

Plath please.

#JesseBear #love #sylviaplath #ariel #dog #dogstagram #goldendoodle #smartypants #rayban #clubmaster

Dodie Bellamy, The Letters of Mina Harker, 2004
ISBN-13: 978-0299206741
***
p. 29
"Mina are you planning to have a baby?" I stomped my satin feet like Sylvia Plath did the night she met Ted Hughes, “Who? Me? No! NO BABIES!”

p. 52
"…Dion plunges into me his right hand clinging to the headrest for balance his left arm around my waist suspeding me in a hot-blooded void there’s nothing solid for me to lean against or grab onto I can’t adjust the cramp nagging my calf head and shoulders bobbing around in open space a line of poetry sticks im my mind reasserting itself like a mantra with each thrust: Sylvia Plath: something else hauls me through air…”

p. 53
"Imagine the look on Dodie’s deeply pinkening face—her mouth an “O” straight out of Sylvia Plath as I proclaim to her, as the space alien with the bird face proclaimed to his shireking hostage, “Horror is a luxury the desperate cannot afford.” “

Dodie Bellamy, The Letters of Mina Harker, 2004

ISBN-13: 978-0299206741

***

p. 29

"Mina are you planning to have a baby?" I stomped my satin feet like Sylvia Plath did the night she met Ted Hughes, “Who? Me? No! NO BABIES!”

p. 52

"…Dion plunges into me his right hand clinging to the headrest for balance his left arm around my waist suspeding me in a hot-blooded void there’s nothing solid for me to lean against or grab onto I can’t adjust the cramp nagging my calf head and shoulders bobbing around in open space a line of poetry sticks im my mind reasserting itself like a mantra with each thrust: Sylvia Plath: something else hauls me through air…”

p. 53

"Imagine the look on Dodie’s deeply pinkening face—her mouth an “O” straight out of Sylvia Plath as I proclaim to her, as the space alien with the bird face proclaimed to his shireking hostage, “Horror is a luxury the desperate cannot afford.” “

Submitted by Marlaina from http://lionsroar83.tumblr.com/:

"Here are my cats reading Sylvia’s books! Bee has ‘Ariel’ and Gemini has ‘Sylvia’s Unabridged Journals’."

lustre-heights:

That snob, #mrfurley, has great taste in #literature. #tomrobbins #vonnegut #borges #henrymiller #sylviaplath #kerouac #eecummings #calvino #honoredebalzac

lustre-heights:

That snob, #mrfurley, has great taste in #literature. #tomrobbins #vonnegut #borges #henrymiller #sylviaplath #kerouac #eecummings #calvino #honoredebalzac

withaflowerinourhair:

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.  A poem by Sylvia Plath that finishes you leave the same impression of something beautiful but annihilating.  I love her poems, I love her real ness, and I love my first tattoo!

The Rival 
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.You leave the same impressionOf something beautiful, but annihilating.Both of you are great light borrowers.Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected,And your first gift is making stone out of everything.I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes,Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous,And dying to say something unanswerable.The moon, too, abuses her subjects,But in the daytime she is ridiculous.Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand,Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity,White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.No day is safe from news of you,Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
—written July 1961

withaflowerinourhair:

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
A poem by Sylvia Plath that finishes you leave the same impression of something beautiful but annihilating.
I love her poems, I love her real ness, and I love my first tattoo!

The Rival

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
Both of you are great light borrowers.
Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected,

And your first gift is making stone out of everything.
I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,
Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes,
Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous,
And dying to say something unanswerable.

The moon, too, abuses her subjects,
But in the daytime she is ridiculous.
Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand,
Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity,
White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.

No day is safe from news of you,
Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.

—written July 1961

sylviaplathink:

Submitted by Simon T.:

" ‘Ariel’ - A facsimile of the last lines written in Ms Plath’s own hand”

I
Am the arrow, the dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.

From the facsimile draft number 3 of the poem ‘Ariel’.
Can be found in Ariel.The Restored Edition. A Facsimile of Plath’s Manuscript, Reinstating Her Original Selection and Arrangement

Ariel

Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.

God’s lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees! - The furrow

Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,

Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks -

Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else

Hauls me through air -
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.

White
Godiva, I unpeel -
Dead hands, dead stringencies.

And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child’s cry

Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,

The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red

Eye, the cauldron of morning.

—written October 27, 1962

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