SYLVIA PLATH ARIEL PDF
Ariel. By Sylvia Plath. Stasis in darkness. Then the substanceless blue. Pour of tor and distances. God's lioness,. How one we grow,. Pivot of heels and knees!. Sylvia Plath - Ariel (PDF) - Download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or view presentation slides online. Revising Life: Sylvia Plath's Ariel Poems. Home · Revising Sylvia Plath: A Literary Life, 2nd ed · Read more Your Own, Sylvia- A Verse Portrait of Sylvia Plath.
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Request PDF on ResearchGate | Sylvia Plath: Ariel | Perfection of Life or ArtHistoryThe Body'The Rabbit Catcher'. Download Sylvia Plath - Ariel (PDF) Short Description. Download Sylvia Plath - Ariel (PDF) Description. ARIEL, By the same author THE. An Instructor's Guide to. Ariel by Sylvia Plath Note to Teachers. Themes: mortality, transcendence, feminine spirit, power. Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
Daddy, I have had to kill you. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I thought every German was you. The tongue stuck in my jaw.
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It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, 49 Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat moustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look I -I And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed twoThe vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through. A common-sense Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool, Trawling your dark as owls do. Vague as fog and looked for like mail. Farther off than Australia. Bent-backed Atlas, our travelled prawn. Snug as a bud and at home Like a sprat in a pickle jug. A creel of eels, all ripples. Jumpy as a Mexican bean. Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on. What does it mean? The tongues of hell Are dull, dull as the triple Tongues of dull, fat Cerberus Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable Of licking clean The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin. The tinder cries.
The indelible smell Of a snuffed candle! Love, love, the low smokes roll From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel. Such yellow sullen smokes Make their own element. They will not rise, But trundle round the globe Choking the aged and the meek, The weak Hothouse baby in its crib, The ghastly orchid Hanging its hanging garden in the air, Devilish leopardl Radiation turned it white And killed it in an hour.
The sin. Darling, all night I have been flickering, off, on, off, on. The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss. Not you, nor him Not him, nor him My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats -To Paradise. Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken Water, water make me retch. I am too pure for you or anyone. Your body Hurts me as the world hurts God. Does not my heat astound you. And my light. All by myself I am a huge camellia Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush. They are the villagers-The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees. In my sleevelesssummery dress I have no protection, And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats. I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me? Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock, Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice. They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear. Which is the rector now, is it that man in black? Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat? Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors, Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Here he comes now, among the mackerel gatherers Through a still virulence, Who wall up their backs against him. They are handling the black and green lozenges like the parts of a body.
The sea, that crystallized these, Creeps away, many-snaked, with a long hiss of distress. Thtngs, things-- I I b 21 Tubular steel wheelchairs, aluminium crutches.
Such salt-sweetness. Why should I walk This is what it is to be complete. It is horrible. Is he wearing pajamas or an evening suit Beyond the breakwater, spotty with barnacles? I am not a nurse, white and attendant, Under the glued sheet from which his powdery beak Rises so whitely unbuffeted?
I am not a smile. These children are after something, with hooks and cries, And my heart too small to bandage their terrible faults. This is the side of a man: One mirrory eye-- They propped his jaw with a book until it stiffened And folded his hands, that were shaking: I I Ii Now the washed sheets fly in the sun, The pillow cases are sweetening.
It is a blessing, it is a blessing: The long coffin of soap-eoloured oak, i. A facet of knowledge. On a striped mattress in one room An old man is vanishing.
There is no help in his weeping wife. The curious bearers and the raw date Engraving itself in silver with marvellous calm. I The grey sky lowers, the hills like a green sea Run fold upon fold far off, concealing their hollows, Where are the eye-stones, yellow and valuable, And the tongue, sapphire of ash. IV A wedding-eake face in a paper frill. How superior he is now. V - The hollows in which rock the thoughts of the wife-Blunt, practical boats I I It is like possessing a saint.
The nurses in their wing-caps are no longer so beautiful; Full of dresses and hats and china and married daughters. In the parlour of the stone house One curtain is flickering from the open window, Flickering and pouring, a pitiful candle. They are browning, like touched gardenias. The bed is rolled from the wall. This is the tongue of the dead man: How far he is now, his actions 22 23 I Around him like livingroom furniture, like a decor.
As the pallors gather-- Passescloud after cloud. And the bride flowers expend a freshness, The pallors of hands and neighbourly faces, The elate pallors of flying iris.
And the soul is a bride In a still place, and the groom is red and forgetful, he is featureless. They are flying off into nothing: The empty benches of memory look over stones, Marble facades with blue veins, and jelly-glassfuls of daffodils.
It is so beautiful up here: VI The natural fatness of these lime leaves! VII Behind the glass of this car The world purrs, shut-off and gentle. Not to be spread again. While a sky, wormy with put-by smiles, For a minute the sky pours into the hole like plasma. There is no hope, it is given up. Andl Am the arrow, Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue Pour of tor and distances. The dew that flies Suicidal, at one with the drive Into the red God's lioness, How one we grow, Pivot of heels and knees! Something else Hauls me through air-Thighs, hair; Flakes from my heels. J And now I Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas. The child's cry L Eye, the cauldron of morning. Two, of course there are two. It seems perfectly natural now-The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded And balled, like Blake's, Who exhibits The birthmarks that are his trademark-The scald scar of water, The nude Verdigris of the condor.
I am red meat. His beak Claps sidewise: I am not his yet. He does not smile or smoke. The other does that, His hair long and plausive. Bastard Masturbating a glitter, He wants to be loved. I do not stir. The frost makes a flower, Somebody's done for. Viciousness in the kitchen! The potatoes hiss. It is all Hollywood, windowless, The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine Coy paper strips for doors-' Stage curtains, a widow's frizz. And I, love, am a pathological liar , o And my child-look at her, face down on the floor, Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear-Why she is schizophrenic, Her face red and white, a panic, You have stuck her kittens outside your window In a sort of cement well Where they crap and puke and cry and she can't hear.
You say you can't stand her, The bastard's a girl. You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio Clear of voices and history, the staticky Noise of the new. You say I should drown the kittens.
Their smell! You say I should drown my girl. She'll cut her throat at ten if she's mad at two. The baby smiles, fat snail, From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum. You could eat him. He's a boy. You say your husband is just no good to you. His Jew-Mama guards his sweet sex like a pearl. You have one baby, I have two. I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair. I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
Meanwhile there's a stink of fat and baby crap. I'm doped and thick from my last sleeping pill. The smog of cooking, the smog of hell Floats our heads, two venomous opposites, Our bones, our hair.
I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill. The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T. Once you were beautiful. In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: Gee baby, you are rare. The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
I try to keep him in, An old pole for the lightning, The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you. He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill, Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue. The blue sparks spill, Splitting like quartz into a million bits. That night the moon Dragged its blood bag, sick Animal Up over the harbor lights. And then grew normal, Hard and apart and white. The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death. We kept picking up handfuls, loving it, Working it like dough, a mulatto body, 31 30!
The silk grits. A dog picked up your doggy husband. He went on. Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak. I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes, I am packing the babies, I am packing the sick cats. You know who you hate. He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate That opens to the sea Where it drives in, white and black, Then spews it back.
Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher. You are so exhausted. Your voice my ear-ring, Flapping and sucking, blood-loving bat. That is that. You peer from the door, Sad hag. I can't communicate. The light burns blue. Waxy stalactites Drip and thicken, tears The earthen womb Exudes from its dead boredom. Black bat airs! They weld to me like plums. Old cave of calcium Icicles, old echoer. Even the newts are white, Those holy [oes, And the fish, the fish-Christ! They are panes of ice, A vice of knives, A piranha Religion, drinking I see your cute decor Close on you like the fist of a baby Or an anemone, that sea Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac.
I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Its first communion out of my live toes. The candle Gulps and recovers its small altitude, Its yellows hearten.
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The blood blooms clean Over your body the clouds go High, high and icily And a little flat, as if they In you, ruby. The pain You wake to is not yours. Floated on a glass that was invisible. Unlike swans, Having no reflections; Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses. With soft rugs- Unlike you, With no strings attached.
All cool, all blue. Unlike you- The last of Victoriana. Let the stars Plummet to their dark address, You, there on your back, Eyes to the sky. The spider-men have caught you, Let the mercuric Atoms that cripple drip Into the terrible well, Winding and twining their petty fetters, Their bribesSo many silks. You are the one Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn. How they hate you. They converse in the valley of your fingers, they are inchworms.
They would have you sleep in their cabinets, This toe and that toe, a relic. Step offl Step off seven leagues, like those distances That revolve in Crivelli, untouchable.
Let this eye be an eagle, The shadow of this lip, an abyss. How far is it now? The gigantic gorilla interiors Of the wheels move, they appal me-The terrible brains Of Krupp, black muzzles Revolving, the sound Punching out Absence! It is Russia I have to get across, it is some war or other.
Sylvia Plath’s “Ariel”
I am dragging my body Quietly through the straw of the boxcars. Now is the time for bribery. What do wheels eat, these wheels Fixed to their arcs like gods, The silver leash of the will-Inexorable. And their pride! All the gods know is destinations.
I am a letter in this slot-I fly to a name, two eyes. Will there be fire, will there be bread? Here there is such mud. It is a trainstop, the nurses Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery, Touching their wounded, The men the blood still pumps forward, Legs, arms piled outside The tent of unending cries-A hospital of dolls.
And the men, what is left of the men Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood Into t he next mile, , The next hour-Dynasty of broken arrows! How far is it? There is mud on my feet, Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side, This earth I rise from, and I in agony. I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming. Steaming and breathing, its teeth Ready to roll, like a devil's. There is a minute at the end of it A minute, a dewdrop.
It is so small The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles-The body of this woman, Charred skirts and deathmask Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children. And now detonations-Thunder and guns. The fire's between us. Is there no still place Turning and turning in the middle air, Untouched and untouchable. The train is dragging itself, it is screaming-An animal Insane for the destination, The bloodspot, The face at the end of the flare.
I shall bury the wounded like pupas, I shall count and bury the dead. Let their souls writhe in a dew, Incense in my track. The carriages rock, they are cradles. I Your stooges Plying their wild cells in my keel's shadow, Pushing by like hearts, Red stigmata at the very centre, Riding the rip tide to the nearest point of departure, Dragging their Jesus hair.
Did I escape, I wonder? My mind winds to you Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable, Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous repair. In any case, you are always there, Tremulous breath at the end of my line, Curve of water upleaping To my water rod, dazzling and grateful, Touching and sucking.
I didn't call you. I didn't call you at all. Nevertheless, nevertheless You steamed to me over the sea, Fat and red, a placenta 39 f L Paralyzing the kicking lovers. Cobra light Squeezing the breath from the blood bells Of the fuchsia. I could draw no breath, Dead and moneyless, Overexposed, like an X-ray.
Who do you think you are? A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary?
I shall take no bite of your body, Bottle in which I live, Ghastly Vatican. I am sick to death of hot salt. Green as eunuchs, your wishes Hiss at my sins. Off, off, eely tentacle! There is nothing between us. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God, Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place Separated from my house by a row of headstones. I simply cannot see where there is to get to. The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair.
I live here. Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky-Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection. At the end, they soberly bong out their names. The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape. The eyes lift after it and find the moon. The moon is my mother.
She is not sweet like Mary. Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. How I would like to believe in tenderness-The face of the effigy,gentled by candles, Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes. I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering Blue and mystical over the face of the stars. Inside the church, the saints will be all blue, Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews, Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. The moon sees nothing of this.
She is bald and wild. And the message of the yew tree is blackness-blackness and silence. Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam, What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful? It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges? The glaze, the mirrory variety of it. Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate. I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is just what I want. When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking I know why you will not give it to me, You are terrified "Is this the one I am to appear for, Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?
The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it, Bossed,brazen, an antique shield, Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus, Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.
A marvel to your great-grandchildren. Do not be afraid, it is not so. Is this the one for the annunciation? My god, what a laugh! You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle, But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me. I would not mind if it was bones, or a pearl button. No falling ribbons, no scream at the end. I do not think you credit me with this discretion. I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year. After all I am alive only by accident.
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If you only knew how the veils were killing my days. To you they are only transparencies, clear air. Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains, But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide. The diaphanous satins of a January window White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in, Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million It must be a tusk there, a ghost-column. Can you not see I do not mind what it is? Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. Do not be ashamed-I do not mind if it is small. Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole? There is this one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me. The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat. The fat Sacrifices its opacity. It stands at my window, big as the sky. It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead centre Where spilt lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger. A window, holy gold. The fire makes it precious, The same fire Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty By the time the whole of it was delivered, and too numb to use it. Melting the tallow heretics, Ousting the Jews. Their thick palls float Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil. I would know you were serious.
There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday. And the knife not carve, but enter Pure and clean as the cry of a baby, And the universe slide from my side. They do not die. Grey birds obsess my heart, Mouth-ash, ash of eye. They settle. On the high Precipice That emptied one man into space The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent.
It is a heart, This holocaust I walk in, o golden child the world will kill and eat. Love, the world Suddenly turns, turns colour. The streetlight Splits through the rat's-tail Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning.
It is the Arctic, o love, 0 celibate. Nobody but me Walks the waist-high wet.
The irreplaceable Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae. This little black Circle, with its tawn silk grasses-babies' hair.
There is a green in the air, Soft, delectable. It cushions me lovingly. I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My Wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red. This is my property. Two times a day I pace it, sniffing The barbarous holly with its viridian Scallops, pure iron, And the wall of old corpses.She was never a student of mine, but for a couple of months seven years ago, she used to drop in on my poetry seminar at Boston University.
J ealousy can open the blood, I t can make black roses. I think I may well be a Jew. The sizeof afly, The doommark Crawls down thewall. I simply cannot seewhere there istoget to. Echoes travelling Off fromthe centrelikehorses.
To youthey areonly transparencies, clear air. I havesimply ordered aboxof maniacs.
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