Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Lady Lazarus- by Sylvia Plath

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 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 in foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , 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 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 on 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.


(Beginnings) Posted by Cristina V.

3 comments:

  1. this poem is the creepiest thing i ever read. i never heard of anyone trying to see how close they can get to death before they actually die. regardless of this the poem is actually very good. i love the line "out of the ash, i rise with my red hair" which is a metaphor to a pheonix which i believe is a very beautiful creature. i also like the structure of the poem, the multiple three lined stanza's make the poem flow smoother and makes you understand the poem better

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  2. I find Cristina's taste very interesting. This poem although somewhat creepy as Chevar said, is very abstract, seductively extravagant and dark. An interesting mix. The overall meaning of the poem is the rebirth only found in death. A profound statement.

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  3. PSYCO. I psycotic little poem that packs a lot of punch. This chick is invincible..except the time she put her head in the oven. I digress. Her word choice gives off thi arrogant "you think you're controlling me but i know the truth. Im the boss here. You cant do anything to me." kinda vibe.

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