Sylvia Plath
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Aftermath - Sylvia Plath
Compelled by calamity's magnet They loiter and stare as if the house Burnt-out were theirs, or as if they thought Some scandal might any minute ooze From a smoke-choked closet into light; No deaths, no prodigious injuries Glut these hunters after an old meat, Blood-spoor of the austere tragedies.
Mother Medea in a green smock Moves humbly as any housewife through Her ruined apartments, taking stock Of charred shoes, the sodden upholstery: Cheated of the pyre and the rack, The crowd sucks her last tear and turns away.
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Aftermath von Sylvia Plath
Gezwungen durch Magnet Unglück's Sie bummeln und schauen, als ob das Haus Burnt-out die ihrigen waren, oder als ob sie glaubten, Einige Skandal könnte jede Minute Schlamm Aus Rauch erstickten Schrank ins Licht; Kein Mann, keine gewaltige Verletzungen Glut die Jäger nach einem alten Fleisch, Blut-Spur des strengen Tragödien.
Mutter Medea in einem grünen Kittel Verschiebt demütig wie eine Hausfrau durch Ihrem zerstörten Wohnungen, eine Bestandsaufnahme Verkohlten Schuhe, die nassen Polster: Betrogen und um den Scheiterhaufen und die Folter, Die Menge saugt ihre letzte Träne und wendet sich ab.
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Am 11. Februar 1963 nahm sich Sylvia Plath das Leben.
Bereits zehn Jahre zuvor hatte sie einen Suizidversuch unternommen - eine Folge der Depression, gegen die sie - letzten Endes - vergeblich ankämpfte.
Die Behandlung in der Psychiatrie, ihre Gefühle - wie unter eine Glasglocke - verarbeitete sie in ihrem berühmten Roman.
Sylvia Plath: Lady Lazarus
I have done it again. One year in every ten 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 I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut
As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick 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 call.
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 Doktor. So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash— You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——
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.
A representative selection of verse by the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer who left in the wake of her personal tragedy a legacy of poems that combine terrifying intensity and dazzling artistry. With their brutally frank self-exposure and emotional immediacy, Plath’s poems, from "Lady Lazarus" to "Daddy," have had an enduring influence on contemporary poetry. READ more here: https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com
