This is a dedication to the warrior that was, and is, Ms.Silvia Plath. For she pulled herself up, up, by her own Poetry bootstraps. She taught, and teaches me to 'study' poetry, and the Muse. Ecoutez: Poetry is the world's first attempt at Mass Communication at a single stroke - hence the logos of Uni-verse. A symphony by any other name...A clarion sigh, then, for Ms. S. Plath.
A Birthday Present What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful? It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges? I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want. When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking 'Is this the one I am too appear for, Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar? Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus, Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules. Is this the one for the annunciation? My god, what a laugh!' But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me. I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button. I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year. After all I am alive only by accident. I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way. Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains, The diaphanous satins of a January window White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory! It must be a tusk there, a ghost column. Can you not see I do not mind what it is. Can you not give it to me? Do not be ashamed-I do not mind if it is small. Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity. Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam, The glaze, the mirrory variety of it. Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate. I know why you will not give it to me, You are terrified The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it, Bossed, brazen, an antique shield, A marvel to your great-grandchildren. Do not be afraid, it is not so. I will only take it and go aside quietly. You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle, No falling ribbons, no scream at the end. I do not think you credit me with this discretion. If you only knew how the veils were killing my days. To you they are only transparencies, clear air. But my god, the clouds are like cotton. Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide. Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in, Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million Probable motes that tick the years off my life. You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine--- Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole? Must you stamp each piece purple, Must you kill what you can? There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me. It stands at my window, big as the sky. It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history. Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger. Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it. Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil. If it were death I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes. 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.
The present I think is suicide. This poem was one of many written 6 months before she ended her life. I believe she had already made the decision, she thought it was the best decision for herself. The veil is what hides what is beyond death, which causes her turmoil. Even though she attempted suicide 10 years earlier, she may have found things that want her to stay on this side of the veil. But the decision is made. The whole poem to me is her struggle with her depression and the choice to take her own life.
Nobody was brave enough to speak of suicide for fear of Asylyms, I still am and have been in many. They wanted to give me ECT's at 11. I was dealing with sexual, emotional and physical abuse along with being treated by a pedophile priest for my "homosexuality". His answer was a playgirl and heterosexual pornography while he played with himself. 😂 I have to laugh now that I've had a drink. My mother, mommy dearest knew and kept sending me back. I was the victim though I hate the word, Munchausen by Proxy by a family filled with incest. I finally cut my wrists to shreds with a dull knife steak knife until I hit my artery, they hadn't yet taught us enough anatomy. Suddenly my mother burst through the door asking and I quote WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO US? I was astounded, bleeding out as she screamed at me. I had broken the facade, the perfect family facade. I still have the scars and I'm 35. I had them inked over when I was in my early 20's by my late dead fiance. Why do they say late? You're not late or early anymore? You just are and then you aren't anymore. I've died twice and I cannot tell you how beautiful it is. You'll see it and be angry if you come back, feeling robbed, raped and an urge to get back that is uncontrollable. Don't try it, I'm not saying that dying is the answer but just have nothing to fear.
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"Afterall I am alive only by accident"
What a masterpiece
Brothers and sisters, this is the voice of God. A spiritual experience.
I was shocked when I first heard her read her own work. For some reason I pictured her voice as soft or meek... I was so wrong!
This is a dedication to the warrior that was, and is, Ms.Silvia Plath. For she pulled herself up, up, by her own Poetry bootstraps. She taught, and teaches me to 'study' poetry, and the Muse. Ecoutez: Poetry is the world's first attempt at Mass Communication at a single stroke - hence the logos of Uni-verse. A symphony by any other name...A clarion sigh, then, for Ms. S. Plath.
I listen, shattered and afraid, yet I listen. Surely she is one of our greats?
happy birthday sylvia, it's 27 oct.
This holds my attention like very few others.
Such powerful narration.
"And the universe slide from my side."
A Birthday Present
What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?
I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking
'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?
Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.
Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'
But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.
I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.
I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,
The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!
It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.
Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed-I do not mind if it is small.
Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,
The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.
I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified
The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,
A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.
I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,
No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.
If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.
But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.
Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million
Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine---
Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,
Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.
It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center
Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.
Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.
Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death
I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
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.
I love her ❤
HUSH
Ever prescient,
Her thought is what counts -
A veiled moon crescent
No chronologist
Dare pronounce.
Does anybody know what she’s alluding to? What exactly is the present?
The present I think is suicide. This poem was one of many written 6 months before she ended her life. I believe she had already made the decision, she thought it was the best decision for herself. The veil is what hides what is beyond death, which causes her turmoil. Even though she attempted suicide 10 years earlier, she may have found things that want her to stay on this side of the veil. But the decision is made. The whole poem to me is her struggle with her depression and the choice to take her own life.
Nobody was brave enough to speak of suicide for fear of Asylyms, I still am and have been in many. They wanted to give me ECT's at 11. I was dealing with sexual, emotional and physical abuse along with being treated by a pedophile priest for my "homosexuality". His answer was a playgirl and heterosexual pornography while he played with himself. 😂 I have to laugh now that I've had a drink. My mother, mommy dearest knew and kept sending me back. I was the victim though I hate the word, Munchausen by Proxy by a family filled with incest. I finally cut my wrists to shreds with a dull knife steak knife until I hit my artery, they hadn't yet taught us enough anatomy. Suddenly my mother burst through the door asking and I quote WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO US? I was astounded, bleeding out as she screamed at me. I had broken the facade, the perfect family facade. I still have the scars and I'm 35. I had them inked over when I was in my early 20's by my late dead fiance. Why do they say late? You're not late or early anymore? You just are and then you aren't anymore. I've died twice and I cannot tell you how beautiful it is. You'll see it and be angry if you come back, feeling robbed, raped and an urge to get back that is uncontrollable. Don't try it, I'm not saying that dying is the answer but just have nothing to fear.
I love the way you write. Very Sylvia.
dope