My writing is profoundly influenced by Sylvia. She is a demon with words - she knows how to seduce you. I'm so glad I got to hear her voice, I never knew these were out there. Thanks so much for the share! "I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again."
In case you don't know SP had gone through extensive electroshock therapy in an attempt to cure her depression. She makes reference to that experience here. Of course the poem goes deep deep deep deep beyond a retelling of that experience.
I missed her by less than a year. I would have been there to save the Sappho of the Century (in London). I was there; but she came late to me AND I bleed for her still. Affection that reaches back through time ... she is here now, with me now in Old Town Toronto. And all our chidren are dead, also. corbeau 16,V.MMX.
This is the city where men are mended. I lie on a great anvil. The flat blue sky-circle Flew off like the hat of a doll When I fell out of the light. I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard. The mother of pestles diminished me. I became a still pebble. The stones of the belly were peaceable, The head-stone quiet, jostled by nothing. Only the mouth-hole piped out, Importunate cricket In a quarry of silences. The people of the city heard it. They hunted the stones, taciturn and separate, The mouth-hole crying their locations. Drunk as a foetus I suck at the paps of darkness. The food tubes embrace me. Sponges kiss my lichens away. The jewelmaster drives his chisel to pry Open one stone eye. This is the after-hell: I see the light. A wind unstoppers the chamber Of the ear, old worrier. Water mollifies the flint lip, And daylight lays its sameness on the wall. The grafters are cheerful, Heating the pincers, hoisting the delicate hammers. A current agitates the wires Volt upon volt. Catgut stitches my fissures. A workman walks by carrying a pink torso. The storerooms are full of hearts. This is the city of spare parts. My swaddled legs and arms smell sweet as rubber. Here they can doctor heads, or any limb. On Fridays the little children come To trade their hooks for hands. Dead men leave eyes for others. Love is the uniform of my bald nurse. Love is the bone and sinew of my curse. The vase, reconstructed, houses The elusive rose. Ten fingers shape a bowl for shadows. My mendings itch. There is nothing to do. I shall be good as new. Sylvia Plath
heart breaking . I have no judgment on how obscure it appears. Suffering is her dew, she says her's with dignity in a brilliant musical poetic contruction .
Good question! Unfortunately, during the 20th century obscurity somehow became an element of verse, as if that would make poetry stand out. The plus side is that it permits richer imagery. Some poetry (such as cumming or Robert Lowell) is thought to be obscure but on close inspection is not. Plath's "Ariel" poems are quite difficult--from the point of view of "meaning." But they are lullabies to the ear.
this is a sunday night where one is scorned dus find yourself wrapped up in mourn and in that morn chorus breaks a sick man is fed well with tremors and quakes
I often look back on my life and the way I perceived the world around me, and I had and still have much the same perceptions as Sylvia had, including a hard time in coming to terms with contemporary society and more than once contemplating suicide... :(
christ all fucking mighty as this poem abso makes me fee;,to be dragged down yes me look a ding bat she doesnt care ; the time will smell anon I'll look after you there
@zakartaz As a woman it would have been only those closest to her? Man, these generalizing comments on Sylvia Plath videos show the persisting ignorance.
I think it's a description of a hospital - how you get in, what happens when you're there (lying in a hospital bed), and what happens when you get out - through the metaphor of stones and their associations.
@zakartaz You went through all my videos and downrated them, and left offensive comments. You're blocked, and reported. Get some help before you implode from your self-hate.
"City of spare parts" ----She's in difference to everything around her, but eventually she thought that "nothing's left to do". No wander she committed suiside.People just do what they're told to do-- the common practices everywhere.But I didn't say that that's the right way to do to 'escape'.--Anyhow --that's just an opinion--not important.
@zakartaz You said that the victims "would have been" x, y, z. An absolute, and there are few of those in the world. And you did not support with a reference until called on it. That was the only point I touched on--the generalizing and absolutisms. Your defensive response and dismissiveness are over the top.
Definitely a major American poet, contra my critical idol, Dr. Bloom! But the "greatest"? Nope. Behind Whitman and Dickenson ABSOLUTELY!!! Maybe Hart Crane too. So top 5 yeah, is you need such rankings! (then you have to deal with Bishop, who was born here, but could care less about our USA)...
Whenever I'm anxious I listen to her read her poems. Her voice and the rhythm of her poetry is just so soothing.
It's great to hear the poem from the Plath herself. Thank you so much.
Definitely one of my favourites of hers.
...And I'm back. In fact, possibly my favourite poem.
My writing is profoundly influenced by Sylvia. She is a demon with words - she knows how to seduce you. I'm so glad I got to hear her voice, I never knew these were out there. Thanks so much for the share!
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again."
In case you don't know SP had gone through extensive electroshock therapy in an attempt to cure her depression. She makes reference to that experience here. Of course the poem goes deep deep deep deep beyond a retelling of that experience.
Sylvia Plath was a beautiful woman,incredible life story.Thankyou for posting her poetry.
Thanks a million for sharing this. Great post.
she makes me want to throw myself with reckless abandon into the world of poetry; i feel i need this beauty to breathe.
@demimooreisawsome She wrote it when she was hospitalized, "the city were men are mended".
I missed her by less than a year. I would have been there to save the Sappho of the Century (in London). I was there; but she came late to me AND I bleed for her still.
Affection that reaches back through time ... she is here now, with me now in Old Town Toronto. And all our chidren are dead, also. corbeau 16,V.MMX.
This is the city where men are mended.
I lie on a great anvil.
The flat blue sky-circle
Flew off like the hat of a doll
When I fell out of the light. I entered
The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.
The mother of pestles diminished me.
I became a still pebble.
The stones of the belly were peaceable,
The head-stone quiet, jostled by nothing.
Only the mouth-hole piped out,
Importunate cricket
In a quarry of silences.
The people of the city heard it.
They hunted the stones, taciturn and separate,
The mouth-hole crying their locations.
Drunk as a foetus
I suck at the paps of darkness.
The food tubes embrace me. Sponges kiss my lichens away.
The jewelmaster drives his chisel to pry
Open one stone eye.
This is the after-hell: I see the light.
A wind unstoppers the chamber
Of the ear, old worrier.
Water mollifies the flint lip,
And daylight lays its sameness on the wall.
The grafters are cheerful,
Heating the pincers, hoisting the delicate hammers.
A current agitates the wires
Volt upon volt. Catgut stitches my fissures.
A workman walks by carrying a pink torso.
The storerooms are full of hearts.
This is the city of spare parts.
My swaddled legs and arms smell sweet as rubber.
Here they can doctor heads, or any limb.
On Fridays the little children come
To trade their hooks for hands.
Dead men leave eyes for others.
Love is the uniform of my bald nurse.
Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.
The vase, reconstructed, houses
The elusive rose.
Ten fingers shape a bowl for shadows.
My mendings itch. There is nothing to do.
I shall be good as new.
Sylvia Plath
It was 1962 when she did this recording it's sad that she died the next year by suicide😭
that was an awesome upload
cheers
she is my sister and my soul mate
Figaro Lucowswki You wish.
+Figaro Lucowswki you HELLA wish
Nobody talks about it but her poems are almost surrealist, this poem feels like a Salvador Dali painting
her voice is soooo conforting
A great poet.....
Thanks for posting this...
heart breaking . I have no judgment on how obscure it appears. Suffering is her dew, she says her's with dignity in a brilliant musical poetic contruction .
sigh. i want her to be here next to me reading this, dammit. how wonderful would that be.
Is it just me, but can you hear TS Eliot in her verse?
🌟🌟🌟
I need to listen to some Joy Division now ....
"A workman walks by carrying a pink torso.
The storerooms are full of hearts.
This is the city of spare parts. "
That's kind of horror+sadness.
its just brilliant.........
I love Plath
getting I am. I am. I am tattooed down my leg XD
that might be a little gay but I love her poetry and writing
Ons Leven is een lange omweg naar de Dood
Where have the importunate crickets gone?
Good question! Unfortunately, during the 20th century obscurity somehow became an element of verse, as if that would make poetry stand out. The plus side is that it permits richer imagery. Some poetry (such as cumming or Robert Lowell) is thought to be obscure but on close inspection is not. Plath's "Ariel" poems are quite difficult--from the point of view of "meaning." But they are lullabies to the ear.
this is a sunday night where one is scorned
dus find yourself wrapped up in mourn
and in that morn chorus breaks
a sick man is fed well with tremors and quakes
I often look back on my life and the way I perceived the world around me, and I had and still have much the same perceptions as Sylvia had, including a hard time in coming to terms with contemporary society and more than once contemplating suicide... :(
hope you’re doing okay
not yetttt
cant wait thooo
:D got yours yet?
christ all fucking mighty as this poem abso makes me fee;,to be dragged down yes me
look a ding bat she doesnt care ; the time will smell anon I'll look after you there
@swiminthissilense Hello! Wow I totally forgot I commented on this - Haven't got the tattoo yet, still deciding :)
@Kirstyyyy9 ahhh hii! i just saw your comment from like 3 yrs ago! did you ever get it? im saving up to get my first tat with sylvia prose
Is it on the edge of town, with pallid couples whirling round and round?
You want to know why it sounds like comfort food? This is the work of agony.
@zakartaz I thought so.
@zakartaz As a woman it would have been only those closest to her? Man, these generalizing comments on Sylvia Plath videos show the persisting ignorance.
@zakartaz You're only proving me right.
I would like to find audio of Plath but seems impossible!
John?
Can anybody explain what this poem is about please?
I think it's a description of a hospital - how you get in, what happens when you're there (lying in a hospital bed), and what happens when you get out - through the metaphor of stones and their associations.
@zakartaz You went through all my videos and downrated them, and left offensive comments. You're blocked, and reported. Get some help before you implode from your self-hate.
well I have no bloody idea really Ron
Plath saw through the bullshit and realized how insane our society is; she could not come to terms with modern life. I can relate, but cannabis helps.
Ah, ¿qué costaría ponerle buenos subtítulos?
Cancer cells burgeon; they require the ministrations of a surgeon..
What do you think it is about?
It's about 2 min, 45 secs.
"City of spare parts" ----She's in difference to everything around her, but eventually she thought that "nothing's left to do". No wander she committed suiside.People just do what they're told to do-- the common practices everywhere.But I didn't say that that's the right way to do to 'escape'.--Anyhow --that's just an opinion--not important.
@zakartaz You said that the victims "would have been" x, y, z. An absolute, and there are few of those in the world. And you did not support with a reference until called on it. That was the only point I touched on--the generalizing and absolutisms. Your defensive response and dismissiveness are over the top.
Definitely a major American poet, contra my critical idol, Dr. Bloom! But the "greatest"? Nope. Behind Whitman and Dickenson ABSOLUTELY!!! Maybe Hart Crane too. So top 5 yeah, is you need such rankings! (then you have to deal with Bishop, who was born here, but could care less about our USA)...
It's hard to understand.....
turn up the gas? stupid!
Uma Cherooty is a tiresome tick.