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
0 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.
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
1 - 13 of 13
-
From guest Chris (contact)
Remarkable poem. The ending lines really had me hooked. This is one of those poems where you will think about time and time again. The lines about redemption and resembling a phoenix are beautiful. RIP -
Sylvia Plath was indeed a great poet. Had she lived I believe she would have been a Poet Laurelate. I wrote a term paper on her and got so involved, I broke into tears when I wrote on her death.
-
lady lazarus
From guest dintle (contact)
she is phenominal. i guess she believes its theatricalcause its her last act. all along she feels she had to act and now the curtains are about to fall.she also sees poetry in her dying which is too fold cause her poetry was an outcry that was never heard, so hence she hates the eyeing of it but at the same time she did it beautifully -
this is my favourite Plath poem... it's so wonderfully descriptive, yet plain... and she's telling it, without emotion, just description of how it feels, and how she would die, over and over... wanting to die... not looking for sympathy... the flow is amazing, the words are dark and powerful...
she truly was an amazing person and an incredible writer, it's such a shame she was so miserable and her suicide was tragic...
RIP.
-
She is a genious. I love her work, from the ones I've read so far anyways, not many but enough. Her style is just.. so.. So different I guess. I love it.
DJH -
Simply asounding. Not everyone is so talented with form and imagery, truly a great poet.
-
Wow...Very interesting style. Never read sylvia plath before but I'm impressed...So I'm off to read more
Very thought provoking.
~Lana
-
only like my favorite poem of all time!!!! sylvia plath was a genius!!!!
-
One of my all time favorites. This was the first poem I read of hers and I was immediately hooked. I had to find out who this poetic genius was. I've been an addict since
-
There are bits of this I like and bits I dont. I've never been the hugest fan of Plath, but I do respect her greatly as a poet. One of the things we owe to her most if for bringing so many young minds (albeit via teenage angst) to poetry. Some of which become talent.
And as for the line about a charge for eyeing her scars, I took that to mean her poetry; as Maureen said, her most succesful work was written during and about her depression or related topics. Therefore she makes money from showing people her grief or mental scars, something which, I am led to understand, she wasn't always happy with. -
An amazing poem...I've been doing a lot of research on Sylvia lately, and she was truly an astounding person. Her poetry flows so freely yet has so much resonance. Contempoary work at its best.
-
Sylvia succeeded with suicide #3..no more Lady Lazarus for the curious to see. She desired relief from agonizing thoughts and brutal betrayal. Ironically, the years she was happy, she lost her muse. Suffering brought out her greatest poems and her triumphant suicide.
-
Beautiful
One of my absolute favorite Plath poems, only just behind "Daddy" and "Ariel".
All of her writing is fueled by such raw emotion that it's sometimes dizzying to read, and Lady Lazerus is probably one of the best examples of that. The last lines are so finalizing and chillling...
Bah, I just love this poem so much. -
I've always adored this poem since I first read it. I don't care that its about suicide, I just love the rhyming and word choices in it. I do think the observations above sound right on.
-
Something like she thrived on it in this poem. She was mocking those that pitied her and yelling at those who wanted her alive when it was the last thing thing she wanted and/or felt that she needed. Feeling like she was on display for the masses, she may as well charge admission for her trying to die made her a show for all to see. Yet over and over she was rased from the dead, just like Lazarus or a phoenix. And pity the ones that brought her away from the desired brink.
Adding your comment:
1 - 13 of 13
