Monday, May 28, 2012

Sylvia Plath is crazy.

And so am I. I think. Of course I’d like to think I’m sui generis but everyone is sui generis so everyone is in reality more like everyone else. WTF.



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.

(1965, Sylvia Plath, Ariel)

*****

There is a charge for the hearing of my heart.



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