Sunday, 7 April 2013
Lady
Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath
I have done it again
Once in every ten years
I manage it--
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify--?
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
and like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies.
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time it happened I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I closed shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
and peel the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a calling.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge,
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so Herr Doctor.
So, Herr enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable.
The pure gold baby
That melts with a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash--
you poke and stir.
Skin, bone, there is nothing here--
A cake of soap.
A wedding ring.
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer,
Beware,
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
Labels:
inspiration,
literature,
poetry
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