Sylvia Plath
سيلفيا بلاث
Sylvia Plathová
シルヴィア・プラス
실비아 플래스
Σύλβια Πλαθ
Сильвія Плат
希薇亞·普拉斯
Плат, Сильвия
americká spisovatelka
Idazlea, poeta
Onye edemede na onye edemede America (1932-1963)
মার্কিন কবি, ছোটগল্পকার ও ঔপন্যাসিক
poeta e novelista estadounidense
アメリカの女性詩人、小説家、短編作家
Amerikana mannaniw ken mannurat
американська феміністська поетеса і письменниця
file, úrscéalaí, agus gearrscéalaí Meiriceánach
poetisa e escritora americana
ameriška pesnica in pisateljica (1932–1963)
poetă americană
американска писателка
Amerikalı yazar (1932 – 1963)
American poet and writer (1932–1963)
미국 시인
amerikansk skribent og poet
امریکی شاعرہ، ناول نگار اور مختصر کہانی نویس
americká spisovateľka
అమెరికాకు చెందిన రచయిత్రి
bardd ac awdur Americanaidd (1932-1963)
amerikansk författare och poet
شاعرة وروائية أمريكية
poeta merikano
yhdysvaltalainen kirjailija ja runoilija
poetessa e scrittrice statunitense
अमेरिकी कवि, उपन्यासकार र छोटो कथा लेखिका
amerikai költő, író, novellista, gyerekkönyvíró
شاعر و نویسنده آمریکایی
American poet, novelist
amerykańska poetka, pisarka i eseistka
американская поэтесса и писательница
משוררת וסופרת אמריקאית
அமெரிக்க கவிஞர் மற்றும் எழுத்தாளர் (1932-1963)
Helbestvan
escritora estadounidense
amerikanische Schriftstellerin und Dichterin
poétesse et romancière américaine
अमेरिकी लेखिका एवं कवयित्री
ލިޔުންތެރިއެއް
美国女诗人、作家
Amerikaans schrijfster
Victoria Lucas
right
left
yes
Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.
The Indeterminacy of the Plath Canon
The Political Education of Sylvia Plath
London, England
Robin
Tracy
Plath, Sylvia
Helle
English
Brain
Peel
And here you come, with a cup of tea Wreathed in steam. The blood jet is poetry, There is no stopping it. You hand me two children, two roses.
And I Am the arrow, The dew that flies Suicidal, at one with the drive Into the red Eye, the cauldron of morning.
I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked [...] as I sat there, unable to decide [which fig], the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia Of your left ear, out of the wind, Counting the red stars and those of plum-color. The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue. My hours are married to shadow. No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel On the blank stones of the landing.
Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
true
Heptonstall Church, England
Sylvia Plath signature .svg
from "The Colossus",
from "Morning Song", Ariel, 1965
The Colossus and Other Poems, 1960