The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage ——
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free ——
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salty, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.
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creation for forceful sense
there's a consternmation for concern that is just procedure
associations are made with the oddity of duty without closeness, as with "Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds." flitting without fulfillment thoughts are not involved but "They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in." corresponding without response has a suffering for inanimate things of true environment almost with "I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head." caring is not as ricocheted but questioned from one collapse to another, body or spirt or both to be focused.
It writes of what isn't but tries as when hundred mile per hour expulsion of air takes me back to my dad's apartment, repeating. when vicious cycle makes for curiosity over any love of violence to just not emit but not sniff, or "I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses" as attendance can't be to emptiness. viscous is consciousness, shake it how from which start or continuance. -
"Tulips" and James Patterson
From guest Marcia J. Kinter (contact)
I was drawn to this poem while reading "Kiss the Girls" by James Patterson. Dr. Katelya McTiernan survived her kidnapping by Cassanova and as she was lying in the hospital with tulips at her bedside, Alex Cross remembers this poem. -
Tulips
Thoughts are wonderful, but it looks more like prose than poetry. -
From guest Jennifer winter (contact)
I am doing a report on this poem and this chick seems to know her stuff!!!!!! -
I JUS LOVE THIS POEM... EVEN THOUGH SHE'S NO MORE SHE LIVES ON INHER WORKS- HER POEMS...
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I think that she was kind of feeling sorry for herself and she was imagining all these things. Like she was in the middle of mourning. It sounds as if she felt she had just lost everything.
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Neurosine - you HAVE your wish but the jury is still out on 'hands.
Vonnie
Edited on Jul 19, 7:19 because ''. -
I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
Shouldn't this be '...my hands to be turned up...'
or '...and to be utterly empty.'?
shouldn't 'I hve no face' be 'I have no face?'
I wonder if the interesting dead girl would please correct these few little things.
Or someone please come along and make hve have.
Sylvia Plath. What an incredibly resonant figure. -
i'm so glad that sylvia plath is old poet of the week, shes one of my favorites, also, and i find that i identify with her. this poem is beautiful and emotional, and everyone should be so lucky to have half her talent...for it is truely missed.
~*~*Rin*~*~ -
There is no one quite like Sylvia, she is one of my all-time favorite poets. I am so happy to see her as poet of the week. Her work is so brittle with emotion, she is by far a remarkable writer...
~Lynnette
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Sylvia Plath is one of my idols when it comes to poetry. All of her poems are amazing. My favorite poem from her though is, "Daddy". Just how she writes.. it's extraordinary.
-Jennifer
Edited on Jul 18, 3:34 p.m. because ''. -
I'm so glad Syvia Plath is the old poet of the week, she's my favourite. I adore her work. The way she manages to capture dark feelings in such a petrifying uncliched way, it makes me think I'm not insane even though she killed herself. This poem captures the madness that takes over sometimes and you can find yourself bringing more meaning into things than there should be.
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I finally rented the movie "Sylvia" and found the story of her life as well as her poerty to be quite fascinating! I checked out 'The Restored Edition Ariel' from the library and am enjoying reading her works. I also want to read 'The Birthday Letters' by her husband, Ted Hughes.
This poem, Tulips, is stunning, from the very first line! Her thoughts were unlike anyone elses.
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One of my all time favorite poems. I know what it would be like, to be confined in a room of white walls and plastered smiles on numb faces and the only thing standing out are something so trivial as tulips. Begging you to be happy with their bright, bold colors. It would seem like an invasion. I think this poem taps into her mindset and is brilliantly written
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