1.
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büyük sylvia plath şiiri :
i have done it again.
one year in every ten
ı manage it--
a sort of walking miracle, my skin
bright as a nazi lampshade,
my right foot
a paperweight,
my face featureless, fine
jew linen.
peel off the napkin
o my enemy.
do ı 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 ı a smiling woman.
ı am only thirty.
and like the cat ı 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.
ı may be skin and bone,
*
nevertheless, ı am the same, identical woman.
the first time it happened ı was ten.
ıt was an accident.
the second time ı meant
to last it out and not come back at all.
ı rocked shut
as a seashell.
they had to call and call
and pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
dying
ıs an art, like everything else.
ı do it exceptionally well.
ı do it so it feels like hell.
ı do it so it feels real.
ı guess you could say ı've a call.
ıt's easy enough to do it in a cell.
ıt's easy enough to do it and stay put.
ıt'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--
ıt 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.
ı am your opus,
ı am your valuable,
the pure gold baby
that melts to a shriek.
ı turn and burn.
do not think ı 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
ı rise with my red hair
and ı eat men like air.
