Her voice is so powerful, the emotion as she says "already your doll grip lets go" chilled my bones. Sylvia Plath was, and still is, one of the most brave and talented poetesses.
The photograph of Sylvia here is one I've never seen before now. I have seen a picture taken at the same time (I can tell by the hairstyle and clothes and necklace) in which Sylvia is shown more close-up and is looking at or almost at the camera and with a more serious expression on her face. I wonder if her daughter Freda has that necklace now. When I hear Sylvia Plath reading her poetry or talking my love and respect for the English language and its proper use and of speaking well is renewed and I am inspired to not just talk but to honor my native language and its history by speaking and enunciating in clear, proper English. I hope that someone else around me will have a little of the experience I have when I listen to Sylvia Plath.
On this bald hill the new year hones its edge. Faceless and pale as china The round sky goes on minding its business. Your absence is inconspicuous; Nobody can tell what I lack. Gulls have threaded the river's mud bed back To this crest of grass. Inland, they argue, Settling and stirring like blown paper Or the hands of an invalid. The wan Sun manages to strike such tin glints From the linked ponds that my eyes wince And brim; the city melts like sugar. A crocodile of small girls Knotting and stopping, ill-assorted, in blue uniforms, Opens to swallow me. I'm a stone, a stick, One child drops a barrette of pink plastic; None of them seem to notice. Their shrill, gravelly gossip's funneled off. Now silence after silence offers itself. The wind stops my breath like a bandage. Southward, over Kentish Town, an ashen smudge Swaddles roof and tree. It could be a snowfield or a cloudbank. I suppose it's pointless to think of you at all. Already your doll grip lets go. The tumulus, even at noon, guards its black shadow: You know me less constant, Ghost of a leaf, ghost of a bird. I circle the writhen trees. I am too happy. These faithful dark-boughed cypresses Brood, rooted in their heaped losses. Your cry fades like the cry of a gnat. I lose sight of you on your blind journey, While the heath grass glitters and the spindling rivulets Unspool and spend themselves. My mind runs with them, Pooling in heel-prints, fumbling pebble and stem. The day empties its images Like a cup or a room. The moon's crook whitens, Thin as the skin seaming a scar. Now, on the nursery wall, The blue night plants, the little pale blue hill In your sister's birthday picture start to glow. The orange pompons, the Egyptian papyrus Light up. Each rabbit-eared Blue shrub behind the glass Exhales an indigo nimbus, A sort of cellophane balloon. The old dregs, the old difficulties take me to wife. Gulls stiffen to their chill vigil in the drafty half-light; I enter the lit house.
People tell me I can't read my poetry (( ...but I think here...the POWER of the WORDS is lost by the furry reading..prob also a bad microphone..or whatever..But great to hear her version anyway..!
Her voice is so powerful, the emotion as she says "already your doll grip lets go" chilled my bones. Sylvia Plath was, and still is, one of the most brave and talented poetesses.
I will never get tired of hearing her voice
The photograph of Sylvia here is one I've never seen before now. I have seen a picture taken at the same time (I can tell by the hairstyle and clothes and necklace) in which Sylvia is shown more close-up and is looking at or almost at the camera and with a more serious expression on her face. I wonder if her daughter Freda has that necklace now. When I hear Sylvia Plath reading her poetry or talking my love and respect for the English language and its proper use and of speaking well is renewed and I am inspired to not just talk but to honor my native language and its history by speaking and enunciating in clear, proper English. I hope that someone else around me will have a little of the experience I have when I listen to Sylvia Plath.
The necklace, unfortunately, was auctioned off
Written right after her miscarriage.
"I suppose it's pointless to think of you at all.
Already her doll grip let go."
Gets me every time.
Her voice is precise and beautiful.
You know me less constant
Something about her voice there. Impossible to emulate
this is really beautiful...
On this bald hill the new year hones its edge.
Faceless and pale as china
The round sky goes on minding its business.
Your absence is inconspicuous;
Nobody can tell what I lack.
Gulls have threaded the river's mud bed back
To this crest of grass. Inland, they argue,
Settling and stirring like blown paper
Or the hands of an invalid. The wan
Sun manages to strike such tin glints
From the linked ponds that my eyes wince
And brim; the city melts like sugar.
A crocodile of small girls
Knotting and stopping, ill-assorted, in blue uniforms,
Opens to swallow me. I'm a stone, a stick,
One child drops a barrette of pink plastic;
None of them seem to notice.
Their shrill, gravelly gossip's funneled off.
Now silence after silence offers itself.
The wind stops my breath like a bandage.
Southward, over Kentish Town, an ashen smudge
Swaddles roof and tree.
It could be a snowfield or a cloudbank.
I suppose it's pointless to think of you at all.
Already your doll grip lets go.
The tumulus, even at noon, guards its black shadow:
You know me less constant,
Ghost of a leaf, ghost of a bird.
I circle the writhen trees. I am too happy.
These faithful dark-boughed cypresses
Brood, rooted in their heaped losses.
Your cry fades like the cry of a gnat.
I lose sight of you on your blind journey,
While the heath grass glitters and the spindling rivulets
Unspool and spend themselves. My mind runs with them,
Pooling in heel-prints, fumbling pebble and stem.
The day empties its images
Like a cup or a room. The moon's crook whitens,
Thin as the skin seaming a scar.
Now, on the nursery wall,
The blue night plants, the little pale blue hill
In your sister's birthday picture start to glow.
The orange pompons, the Egyptian papyrus
Light up. Each rabbit-eared
Blue shrub behind the glass
Exhales an indigo nimbus,
A sort of cellophane balloon.
The old dregs, the old difficulties take me to wife.
Gulls stiffen to their chill vigil in the drafty half-light;
I enter the lit house.
thanks
@jadexmikaila haha yes, isnt it great?
People tell me I can't read my poetry (( ...but I think here...the POWER of the WORDS is lost by the furry reading..prob also a bad microphone..or whatever..But great to hear her version anyway..!
Blood on Ted’s hands