Mad Girl's Love Song by Sylvia Plath

Another one of my favorite Plath poems.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath

My favorite Sylvia Plath poem would have to be Lady Lazarus. The following is a video of Sylvia Plath herself reading the poem. There is so much emotion behind her words, and the audio has such a haunting, ethereal quality to it. If you consider yourself a fan of Plath at all, I would suggest listening to this reading. You won't regret it.

The Other by Sylvia Plath

This is the first of what I’m sure will be many many Plath poems on my blog. I honestly cannot even begin to explain my love for this woman, her writing, her mind, and her brilliance. Her poetry speaks to me in a way nothing else ever has. And this is one of my favorites.

You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep—-

White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?

Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.

The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,

Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?

Is it for this the air motes depart?
They are not air motes, they are corpuscles.

Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily

Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.

I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,

Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,

The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.

Where are you going
That you suck breath like mileage?

Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself

Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.

The blood that runs is dark fruit—-
An effect, a cosmetic.

You smile.
No, it is not fatal.