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Winter is for women The woman still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
Sylvia Plath
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Sylvia Plath
Age: 30 †
Born: 1932
Born: October 27
Died: 1963
Died: February 11
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Victoria Lucas
Sylvia Plath Hughes
Woman
Bulb
Stills
Bulbs
Women
Knitting
Still
Spanish
Body
Cradle
Think
Dumb
Thinking
Winter
Walnut
Cold
Walnuts
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And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
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We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?
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