1. Notes: 1 / 1 hour ago 
    via jaydealynne @ instagram
***
April Aubade
 Worship this world of watercolor mood in glass pagodas hung with veils of green where diamonds jangle hymns within the blood and sap ascends the steeple of the vein.
 A saintly sparrow jargons madrigals to waken dreamers in the milky dawn, while tulips bow like a college of cardinals before that papal paragon, the sun.
 Christened in a spindrift of snowdrop stars, where on pink-fluted feet the pigeons pass and jonquils sprout like solomon’s metaphors, my love and I go garlanded with grass.
 Again we are deluded and infer that somehow we are younger than we were.
—Sylvia Plath, The Collected Poems (Juvenilia  1952-1956), 1981

    via jaydealynne @ instagram

    ***

    April Aubade

    Worship this world of watercolor mood
    in glass pagodas hung with veils of green
    where diamonds jangle hymns within the blood
    and sap ascends the steeple of the vein.

    A saintly sparrow jargons madrigals
    to waken dreamers in the milky dawn,
    while tulips bow like a college of cardinals
    before that papal paragon, the sun.

    Christened in a spindrift of snowdrop stars,
    where on pink-fluted feet the pigeons pass
    and jonquils sprout like solomon’s metaphors,
    my love and I go garlanded with grass.

    Again we are deluded and infer
    that somehow we are younger than we were.

    —Sylvia Plath, The Collected Poems (Juvenilia 1952-1956), 1981

     
  2. Notes: 20 / 23 hours ago  from negatorri
    negatorri:

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so feels real.

    negatorri:

    Dying
    Is an art, like everything else.
    I do it exceptionally well.
    I do it so it feels like hell.
    I do it so feels real.

     
  3. Notes: 10 / 2 days ago  from midgirl99
    midgirl99:

#sylviaplathink


“The Bee Meeting”
 Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the          villagers——-The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.Thev will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.Their smiles and their voices are changing. I am led through a beanfield.Strips of tinfoil winking like people,Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hatAnd a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?The barren body of hawthorn, etherizing its children.Is it some operation that is taking place?It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,This apparition in a green helmet,Shining gloves and white suit.Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts meWith its yellow purses, its spiky armory.I could not run without having to run forever.The white hive is snug as a virgin,Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,A gullible head untouched by their animosity,Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.While in their fingerjoint cells the new virginsDream of a duel they will win inevitably,A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?I am exhausted, I am exhausted -Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.I am the magician’s girl who does not flinch.The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished,          why am I cold.
—written 3 October 1962

    midgirl99:

    #sylviaplathink

    The Bee Meeting

     Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the
              villagers——-
    The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
    In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
    And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
    They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.

    I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
    Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
    Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
    Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
    Thev will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.

    Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
    Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
    Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
    Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
    Their smiles and their voices are changing. I am led through a beanfield.

    Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
    Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
    Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
    Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
    No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.

    Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
    And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
    They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
    Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
    The barren body of hawthorn, etherizing its children.

    Is it some operation that is taking place?
    It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
    This apparition in a green helmet,
    Shining gloves and white suit.
    Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?

    I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
    With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
    I could not run without having to run forever.
    The white hive is snug as a virgin,
    Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.

    Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
    The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
    Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
    If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
    A gullible head untouched by their animosity,

    Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
    The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
    Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
    She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
    While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins

    Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
    A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
    The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
    The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
    The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?

    I am exhausted, I am exhausted -
    Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
    I am the magician’s girl who does not flinch.
    The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
    Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished,
              why am I cold.

    —written 3 October 1962

     
  4. Notes: 21 / 3 days ago  from opheliasmonologue
    opheliasmonologue:

Obsessed.

    opheliasmonologue:

    Obsessed.

     
  5. Notes: 40 / 3 days ago  from hayambular
    hayambular:

Constant reminder <3

    hayambular:

    Constant reminder <3

     
  6. Notes: 13 / 4 days ago  from imperfectionalbliss
    imperfectionalbliss:

I’ve never posted a picture of my ink on social media before. Partly because of family. But I don’t really care anymore. It’s my body. I could explain the meaning behind it but anyone who knows me knows my love of this quote. It’s who i am (pun?) also it’s located on my right rib cage if you can not tell!

    imperfectionalbliss:

    I’ve never posted a picture of my ink on social media before. Partly because of family. But I don’t really care anymore. It’s my body. I could explain the meaning behind it but anyone who knows me knows my love of this quote. It’s who i am (pun?) also it’s located on my right rib cage if you can not tell!

     
  7. Notes: 14 / 5 days ago  from coppertogold
    coppertogold:

"I listened to the old brag of my heart ‘I am I am I am’"The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
I am important. I am special. I am living a life worth living. Sometimes I just need a little reminder, so here’s that reminder. Happy birthday to me! 

    coppertogold:

    "I listened to the old brag of my heart ‘I am I am I am’"
    The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath

    I am important. I am special. I am living a life worth living. Sometimes I just need a little reminder, so here’s that reminder. Happy birthday to me! 

     
  8. Notes: 125 / 6 days ago  from tedbundylovesyou
    tedbundylovesyou:

So being half naked in a semi-public area is as much terrifying as it is liberating.

    tedbundylovesyou:

    So being half naked in a semi-public area is as much terrifying as it is liberating.

     
  9. Notes: 37 / 6 days ago  from tedbundylovesyou
    tedbundylovesyou:

Sylvia Plath/The Front Bottoms tattoo.

    tedbundylovesyou:

    Sylvia Plath/The Front Bottoms tattoo.

     
  10. Notes: 46 / 1 week ago  from deerbabystyles
    via http://deerbabystyles.tumblr.com/
ELM
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;  It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.  Is it the sea you hear in me,  Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness? Love is a shadow.  How you lie and cry after it. Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.  All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,  Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf, Echoing, echoing.  Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?  This is rain now, the big hush. And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.  I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets. Scorched to the root My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires. Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs. A wind of such violence Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.  The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radience scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her. I let her go. I let her go  Diminshed and flat, as after radical surgery. How your bad dreams possess and endow me.  I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.  I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me;  All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrevables?  Is it for such I agitate my heart?  I am incapable of more knowledge. What is this, this face  So murderous in its strangle of branches?— Its snaky acids kiss. It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults  That kill, that kill, that kill.
—written 19 April 1962

    via http://deerbabystyles.tumblr.com/

    ELM

    I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;
    It is what you fear.
    I do not fear it: I have been there.

    Is it the sea you hear in me,
    Its dissatisfactions?
    Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?

    Love is a shadow.
    How you lie and cry after it.
    Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

    All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
    Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
    Echoing, echoing.

    Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
    This is rain now, the big hush.
    And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.

    I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
    Scorched to the root
    My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.

    Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
    A wind of such violence
    Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

    The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
    Cruelly, being barren.
    Her radience scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

    I let her go. I let her go
    Diminshed and flat, as after radical surgery.
    How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

    I am inhabited by a cry.
    Nightly it flaps out
    Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

    I am terrified by this dark thing
    That sleeps in me;
    All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

    Clouds pass and disperse.
    Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrevables?
    Is it for such I agitate my heart?

    I am incapable of more knowledge.
    What is this, this face
    So murderous in its strangle of branches?—

    Its snaky acids kiss.
    It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
    That kill, that kill, that kill.

    —written 19 April 1962

     
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"Wear your heart on your skin in this life." ― Sylvia Plath, Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams: Short Stories, Prose, and Diary Excerpts

This blog is a spin-off from my main blog http://lovingsylvia.tumblr.com/

Trying to create a collection of ALL the Sylvia Plath tattoos I can find on the world wide web... and there are tonns of them out there!

Even though sometimes it sees that I can never collect all the tattoos I want and I can only go mad. I am horribly limited. ;)

Have fun and get inspired! ;)

P.S.: If you want, you can always submit your tattoo to: lovingsylviaplath@gmail.com
 
 

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