Sylvia Plath
실비아 플래스
Сильвія Плат
Sylvia Plathová
Плат, Сильвия
Σύλβια Πλαθ
希薇亞·普拉斯
سيلفيا بلاث
シルヴィア・プラス
bardd ac awdur Americanaidd (1932-1963)
Idazlea, poeta
escritora estadounidense
amerikansk skribent og poet
شاعر و نویسنده آمریکایی
poetessa e scrittrice statunitense
美国女诗人、作家
poetă americană
アメリカの女性詩人、小説家、短編作家
משוררת וסופרת אמריקאית
Amerikalı yazar (1932 – 1963)
ameriška pesnica in pisateljica (1932–1963)
Onye edemede na onye edemede America (1932-1963)
امریکی شاعرہ، ناول نگار اور مختصر کہانی نویس
अमेरिकी लेखिका एवं कवयित्री
అమెరికాకు చెందిన రచయిత్రి
شاعرة وروائية أمريكية
americká spisovateľka
Amerikaans schrijfster
अमेरिकी कवि, उपन्यासकार र छोटो कथा लेखिका
yhdysvaltalainen kirjailija ja runoilija
amerikanische Schriftstellerin und Dichterin
americká spisovatelka
미국 시인
amerikai költő, író, novellista, gyerekkönyvíró
poeta merikano
американска писателка
American poet and writer (1932–1963)
file, úrscéalaí, agus gearrscéalaí Meiriceánach
poétesse et romancière américaine
poetisa e escritora americana
американська феміністська поетеса і письменниця
American poet, novelist
американская поэтесса и писательница
amerikansk författare och poet
Helbestvan
amerykańska poetka, pisarka i eseistka
মার্কিন কবি, ছোটগল্পকার ও ঔপন্যাসিক
ލިޔުންތެރިއެއް
அமெரிக்க கவிஞர் மற்றும் எழுத்தாளர் (1932-1963)
Amerikana mannaniw ken mannurat
poeta e novelista estadounidense
Victoria Lucas
left
right
yes
Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.
The Indeterminacy of the Plath Canon
The Political Education of Sylvia Plath
London, England
Tracy
Robin
Plath, Sylvia
Helle
English
Peel
Brain
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 "Morning Song", Ariel, 1965