Sylvia Plath
@sylviaplathpoetry.bsky.social
Poetry bot of Sylvia Plath.
These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
July 4, 2025 at 2:46 PM
These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
A Birthday Present
What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
June 24, 2025 at 12:01 AM
A Birthday Present
What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
Her sallow rodent teeth like castanets
Against my leaning down, would not exchange
For that wary clatter sound or gesture
Against my leaning down, would not exchange
For that wary clatter sound or gesture
June 23, 2025 at 9:38 PM
Her sallow rodent teeth like castanets
Against my leaning down, would not exchange
For that wary clatter sound or gesture
Against my leaning down, would not exchange
For that wary clatter sound or gesture
Skin doesn't have roots, it peels away easy as paper.
June 18, 2025 at 9:10 AM
Skin doesn't have roots, it peels away easy as paper.
I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,
And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,
And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,
June 18, 2025 at 9:04 AM
I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,
And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,
And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,
I am so small
In comparison to these organs!
In comparison to these organs!
March 25, 2025 at 4:15 AM
I am so small
In comparison to these organs!
In comparison to these organs!
Berries cast dark
Hooks
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Hooks
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
March 25, 2025 at 4:14 AM
Berries cast dark
Hooks
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Hooks
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
I have painted little hearts on everything.
March 25, 2025 at 4:14 AM
I have painted little hearts on everything.
El agua del canal del molino, a través de una compuerta de piedra, se precipita de cabeza en ese estanque negro.
donde, absurdo y fuera de temporada, un solo cisne flota casto como la nieve, burlándose de la mente nublada
que tiene hambre de arrastrar el reflejo blanco down.
donde, absurdo y fuera de temporada, un solo cisne flota casto como la nieve, burlándose de la mente nublada
que tiene hambre de arrastrar el reflejo blanco down.
March 18, 2025 at 11:46 PM
El agua del canal del molino, a través de una compuerta de piedra, se precipita de cabeza en ese estanque negro.
donde, absurdo y fuera de temporada, un solo cisne flota casto como la nieve, burlándose de la mente nublada
que tiene hambre de arrastrar el reflejo blanco down.
donde, absurdo y fuera de temporada, un solo cisne flota casto como la nieve, burlándose de la mente nublada
que tiene hambre de arrastrar el reflejo blanco down.
I am a root, a stone, an owl pellet,
Without dreams of any sort.
Without dreams of any sort.
February 15, 2025 at 7:36 AM
I am a root, a stone, an owl pellet,
Without dreams of any sort.
Without dreams of any sort.
Smelling the dawn drafts.
February 15, 2025 at 7:36 AM
Smelling the dawn drafts.
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.
February 15, 2025 at 7:36 AM
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.
I considered the poetry I rescued
February 13, 2025 at 10:57 PM
I considered the poetry I rescued
Love, love, my season.
February 13, 2025 at 6:48 PM
Love, love, my season.
Here on a mount overlaid with leaves. The paint-peeled
Hundred-year-old hotel sustains its ramshackle
Four-way veranda, view-keeping above
Hundred-year-old hotel sustains its ramshackle
Four-way veranda, view-keeping above
February 12, 2025 at 6:55 AM
Here on a mount overlaid with leaves. The paint-peeled
Hundred-year-old hotel sustains its ramshackle
Four-way veranda, view-keeping above
Hundred-year-old hotel sustains its ramshackle
Four-way veranda, view-keeping above
The Ravaged Face
Outlandish as a circus, the ravaged face
Parades the marketplace, lurid and stricken
Outlandish as a circus, the ravaged face
Parades the marketplace, lurid and stricken
February 12, 2025 at 6:54 AM
The Ravaged Face
Outlandish as a circus, the ravaged face
Parades the marketplace, lurid and stricken
Outlandish as a circus, the ravaged face
Parades the marketplace, lurid and stricken
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
That knocks me out.
February 12, 2025 at 6:54 AM
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
That knocks me out.
I see a tree.
February 12, 2025 at 6:54 AM
I see a tree.
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
February 10, 2025 at 7:19 PM
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
Bright those claws that mar the flesh
And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.
And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.
February 10, 2025 at 7:19 PM
Bright those claws that mar the flesh
And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.
And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.
In the wake of this fierce cat,
Kindled like torches for his joy,
Charred and ravened women lie
Kindled like torches for his joy,
Charred and ravened women lie
February 10, 2025 at 7:18 PM
In the wake of this fierce cat,
Kindled like torches for his joy,
Charred and ravened women lie
Kindled like torches for his joy,
Charred and ravened women lie
I did not look. But still the face was there,
The face of the unborn one that loved its perfections,
The face of the dead one that could only be perfect
The face of the unborn one that loved its perfections,
The face of the dead one that could only be perfect
December 11, 2024 at 12:50 PM
I did not look. But still the face was there,
The face of the unborn one that loved its perfections,
The face of the dead one that could only be perfect
The face of the unborn one that loved its perfections,
The face of the dead one that could only be perfect
She is a small island, asleep and peaceful,
And I am a white ship hooting: Goodbye, goodbye.
And I am a white ship hooting: Goodbye, goodbye.
December 11, 2024 at 12:50 PM
She is a small island, asleep and peaceful,
And I am a white ship hooting: Goodbye, goodbye.
And I am a white ship hooting: Goodbye, goodbye.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
December 11, 2024 at 12:49 PM
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
December 11, 2024 at 12:48 PM
So daddy, I'm finally through.