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Sylvia Plath

Ariel

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  • trexцитируетв прошлом году
    The moon has nothing to be sad about,

    Staring from her hood of bone.

    She is used to this sort of thing.

    Her blacks crackle and drag.
  • trexцитируетв прошлом году
    The woman is perfected.

    Her dead

    Body wears the smile of accomplishment,

    The illusion of a Greek necessity

    Flows in the scrolls of her toga,

    Her bare

    Feet seem to be saying:

    We have come so far, it is over.
  • trexцитируетв прошлом году
    There is no terminus, only suitcases

    Out of which the same self unfolds like a suit

    Bald and shiny, with pockets of wishes,

    Notions and tickets, short circuits and folding mirrors.

    I am mad, calls the spider, waving its many arms.

    And in truth it is terrible,

    Multiplied in the eyes of the flies.

    They buzz like blue children

    In nets of the infinite,

    Roped in at the end by the one

    Death with its many sticks.
  • trexцитируетв прошлом году
    The tree of life and the tree of life

    Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.

    The blood flood is the flood of love,

    The absolute sacrifice.
  • trexцитируетв прошлом году
    Into which, on warm days,

    They can only carry their dead.

    The bees are all women,

    Maids and the long royal lady.

    They have got rid of the men,

    The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.

    Winter is for women—

    The woman, still at her knitting,

    At the cradle of Spanish walnut,

    Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.

    Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas

    Succeed in banking their fires

    To enter another year?

    What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?

    The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
  • trexцитируетв прошлом году
    A clean slate, with your own face on.
  • trexцитируетв прошлом году
    I was ten when they buried you.

    At twenty I tried to die

    And get back, back, back to you.

    I thought even the bones would do.

    But they pulled me out of the sack,

    And they stuck me together with glue.

    And then I knew what to do.

    I made a model of you,

    A man in black with a Meinkampf look

    And a love of the rack and the screw.

    And I said I do, I do.
  • trexцитируетв прошлом году
    Every woman adores a Fascist,

    The boot in the face, the brute

    Brute heart of a brute like you.
  • trexцитируетв прошлом году
    I never could talk to you.

    The tongue stuck in my jaw.

    It stuck in a barb wire snare.

    Ich, ich, ich, ich,

    I could hardly speak.

    I thought every German was you.

    And the language obscene
  • trexцитируетв прошлом году
    Of wars, wars, wars.

    But the name of the town is common.

    My Polack friend

    Says there are a dozen or two.

    So I never could tell where you

    Put your foot, your root,
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