Sylvia Plath

"In these poems...Sylvia Plath becomes herself, becomes something imaginary, newly, wildly and subtly created." -- From the Introduction by Robert Lowell

Perennial Classics Edition

Ariel

Emiley Jones

Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,

Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,

Lindsay

Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow

The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, 

They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,

Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,

So it is impossible to tell how many there are. 

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water 

Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. 

They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted 

To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.

My night sweats grease his breakfast plate.

The fever trickles and stiffens in my hair. 

All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

The courage of the shut mouth, in spite of artillery!

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