Plath Poems

Tulips and other poems from Ariel #

Below are some of Sylvia Plath’s more sedate poems regarding life and nature.  Many of her poems can be compared to those of Ted Hughes as they worked in harmony throughout most of their seven years of marriage.  Her poems tend to be more about the flora and meek natural world, while Ted dealt with the instinctive savagery of our animal natures.

The first poem “Tulips,” written on March 18th, 1961, is one of Plath’s most beloved and critically acclaimed poems. It was originally published in Ariel. Ted Hughes has stated that the poem was written about a bouquet of tulips Plath received as she recovered from an appendectomy in the hospital.

Other poems below include:

 

Tulips

The Elm

The Moon and the Yew Tree

Sheep in Fog

** Tulips**

* The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.*

* Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.   *

* I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly*

* As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.   *

* I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.   *

* I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses   *

* And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.*

* *

* They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff   *

* Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.*

* Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.*

* 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.   *

* Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage——*

* My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,   *

* My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;   *

* Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.*

* *

* I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat   *

* stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.*

* They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.   *

* Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley   *

* I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books   *

* Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.   *

* I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.*

* *

* I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted*

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

* How free it is, you have no idea how free——*

* The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,*

* And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.*

* It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them   *

* Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.   *

* *

* The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.*

* Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe   *

* Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.   *

* Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.*

* They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,   *

* Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,   *

* A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.*

* *

* Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.   *

* The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me*

* Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,   *

* And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow   *

* Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,   *

* And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.   *

* The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.*

* *

* Before they came the air was calm enough,*

* Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.   *

* Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.*

* Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river   *

* Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.   *

* They concentrate my attention, that was happy   *

* Playing and resting without committing itself.*

* *

* The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.*

* The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;   *

* They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,   *

* And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes*

* Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.*

* The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,*

* And comes from a country far away as health.*

*
*

White and red are some of Plath’s dominant colours in poetry and real life. Ted writes of the first night he saw her:  *She wore red shoes and her blonde hair was held back neatly by a red ribboned band. * She used a lot of red paint to decorate their house in Devon.  Red symbolises life and vitality.

White here represents tranquility, peace, nullity and ultimate death.

** The Elm**

* For Ruth Fainlight*

* I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:  *

* It is what you fear.*

* I do not fear it: I have been there.*

* Is it the sea you hear in me,  *

* Its dissatisfactions?*

* Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?*

* Love is a shadow.*

* How you lie and cry after it*

* 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,  *

* Echoing, echoing.*

* Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?  *

* This is rain now, this big hush.*

* And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.*

* I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.  *

* Scorched to the root*

* My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.*

* Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs. *

* A wind of such violence*

* Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.*

** The Moon and the Yew Tree**

* The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me  *

* Cruelly, being barren.*

* Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.*

* I let her go. I let her go*

* Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.  *

* How your bad dreams possess and endow me.*

* I am inhabited by a cry.  *

* Nightly it flaps out*

* Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.*

* I am terrified by this dark thing  *

* That sleeps in me;*

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

* Clouds pass and disperse.*

* Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?  *

* Is it for such I agitate my heart?*

* I am incapable of more knowledge.  *

* What is this, this face*

* So murderous in its strangle of branches?——*

* Its snaky acids hiss.*

* It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults  *

* That kill, that kill, that kill.*

Sheep in Fog

* The hills step off into whiteness.*

* People or stars*

* Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.*

* The train leaves a line of breath.*

* O slow*

* Horse the color of rust,*

* Hooves, dolorous bells–*

* All morning the*

* Morning has been blackening,*

* A flower left out.*

* My bones hold a stillness, the far*

* Fields melt my heart.*

* They threaten*

* To let me through to a heaven*

* Starless and fatherless, a dark water.*