Posts tagged "sylvia plath"
  1. Notes: 58 / 4 weeks ago  from lovingsylvia (originally from naybles)
    naybles: By a mad miracle I go intactAmong the common routThronging sidewalk, street,And bickering shops;Nobody blinks a lid, gapes,Or cries that this raw fleshReeks of the butcher’s cleaver,Its heart and guts hung hookedAnd bloodied as a cow’s split frameParceled out by white-jacketed assassins.Oh no, for I strut it cleverAs a greenly escaped idiot,Buying wine, bread,Yellow-casqued chrysanthemums -Arming myself with the most reasonable itemsTo ward off, at all cost, suspicionsRoused by thorned hands, feet, head,And that great woundSquandering redFrom the flayed side.Even as my each mangled nerve-endTrills its hurt outAbove pitch of pedestrian ear,So, perhaps I, knelled dumb by your absence,Alone can hearSun’s parched scream,Every downfall and crashOf gutted star,And, more daft than any goose,This cracked world’s incessant gabble and hiss. Street Song by Sylvia Plath —written 1956

    naybles:

    By a mad miracle I go intact
    Among the common rout
    Thronging sidewalk, street,
    And bickering shops;
    Nobody blinks a lid, gapes,
    Or cries that this raw flesh
    Reeks of the butcher’s cleaver,
    Its heart and guts hung hooked
    And bloodied as a cow’s split frame
    Parceled out by white-jacketed assassins.

    Oh no, for I strut it clever
    As a greenly escaped idiot,
    Buying wine, bread,
    Yellow-casqued chrysanthemums -
    Arming myself with the most reasonable items
    To ward off, at all cost, suspicions
    Roused by thorned hands, feet, head,
    And that great wound
    Squandering red
    From the flayed side.

    Even as my each mangled nerve-end
    Trills its hurt out
    Above pitch of pedestrian ear,
    So, perhaps I, knelled dumb by your absence,
    Alone can hear
    Sun’s parched scream,
    Every downfall and crash
    Of gutted star,
    And, more daft than any goose,
    This cracked world’s incessant gabble and hiss.

    Street Song by Sylvia Plath

    —written 1956

     
  2. Notes: 183 / 1 month ago  from lovingsylvia (originally from tattoolit)
    lovingsylvia: tattoolit: One of my favorite Plath quotes… *** Lesbos Viciousness in the kitchen! The potatoes hiss. It is all Hollywood, windowless, The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine, Coy paper strips for doors — Stage curtains, a widow’s frizz. And I, love, am a pathological liar, And my child — look at her, face down on the floor, Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear — Why she is schizophrenic, Her face is red and white, a panic, You have stuck her kittens outside your window In a sort of cement well Where they crap and puke and cry and she can’t hear. You say you can’t stand her, The bastard’s a girl. You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio Clear of voices and history, the staticky Noise of the new. You say I should drown the kittens. Their smell! You say I should drown my girl. She’ll cut her throat at ten if she’s mad at two. The baby smiles, fat snail, From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum. You could eat him. He’s a boy. You say your husband is just no good to you. His Jew-Mama guards his sweet sex like a pearl. You have one baby, I have two. I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair. I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair. We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, Me and you. Meanwhile there’s a stink of fat and baby crap. I’m doped and thick from my last sleeping pill. The smog of cooking, the smog of hell Floats our heads, two venemous opposites, Our bones, our hair. I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill. The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B. Once you were beautiful. In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: ‘Through? Gee baby, you are rare.’ You acted, acted for the thrill. The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee. I try to keep him in, An old pole for the lightning, The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you. He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill, Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue. The blue sparks spill, Splitting like quartz into a million bits. O jewel! O valuable! That night the moon Dragged its blood bag, sick Animal Up over the harbor lights. And then grew normal, Hard and apart and white. The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death. We kept picking up handfuls, loving it, Working it like dough, a mulatto body, The silk grits. A dog picked up your doggy husband. He went on. Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak. I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes, I am packing the babies, I am packing the sick cats. O vase of acid, It is love you are full of. You know who you hate. He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate That opens to the sea Where it drives in, white and black, Then spews it back. Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher. You are so exhausted. Your voice my ear-ring, Flapping and sucking, blood-loving bat. That is that. That is that. You peer from the door, Sad hag. ‘Every woman’s a whore. I can’t communicate.’ I see your cute décor Close on you like the fist of a baby Or an anemone, that sea Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac. I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan’t meet. —written 16 October 1962

    lovingsylvia:

    tattoolit:

    One of my favorite Plath quotes…

    ***

    Lesbos

    Viciousness in the kitchen!
    The potatoes hiss.
    It is all Hollywood, windowless,
    The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine,
    Coy paper strips for doors —
    Stage curtains, a widow’s frizz.
    And I, love, am a pathological liar,
    And my child — look at her, face down on the floor,
    Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear —
    Why she is schizophrenic,
    Her face is red and white, a panic,
    You have stuck her kittens outside your window
    In a sort of cement well
    Where they crap and puke and cry and she can’t hear.
    You say you can’t stand her,
    The bastard’s a girl.
    You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio
    Clear of voices and history, the staticky
    Noise of the new.
    You say I should drown the kittens. Their smell!
    You say I should drown my girl.
    She’ll cut her throat at ten if she’s mad at two.
    The baby smiles, fat snail,
    From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum.
    You could eat him. He’s a boy.
    You say your husband is just no good to you.
    His Jew-Mama guards his sweet sex like a pearl.
    You have one baby, I have two.
    I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
    I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
    We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
    Me and you.

    Meanwhile there’s a stink of fat and baby crap.
    I’m doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.
    The smog of cooking, the smog of hell
    Floats our heads, two venemous opposites,
    Our bones, our hair.
    I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill.
    The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.
    Once you were beautiful.
    In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: ‘Through?
    Gee baby, you are rare.’
    You acted, acted for the thrill.
    The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
    I try to keep him in,
    An old pole for the lightning,
    The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
    He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
    Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue.
    The blue sparks spill,
    Splitting like quartz into a million bits.

    O jewel! O valuable!
    That night the moon
    Dragged its blood bag, sick
    Animal
    Up over the harbor lights.
    And then grew normal,
    Hard and apart and white.
    The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death.
    We kept picking up handfuls, loving it,
    Working it like dough, a mulatto body,
    The silk grits.
    A dog picked up your doggy husband. He went on.

    Now I am silent, hate
    Up to my neck,
    Thick, thick.
    I do not speak.
    I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes,
    I am packing the babies,
    I am packing the sick cats.
    O vase of acid,
    It is love you are full of. You know who you hate.
    He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate
    That opens to the sea
    Where it drives in, white and black,
    Then spews it back.
    Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher.
    You are so exhausted.
    Your voice my ear-ring,
    Flapping and sucking, blood-loving bat.
    That is that. That is that.
    You peer from the door,
    Sad hag. ‘Every woman’s a whore.
    I can’t communicate.’

    I see your cute décor
    Close on you like the fist of a baby
    Or an anemone, that sea
    Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac.
    I am still raw.
    I say I may be back.
    You know what lies are for.

    Even in your Zen heaven we shan’t meet.

    —written 16 October 1962

     
  3. Notes: 60 / 1 month ago  from mirrors-images
    mirrors-images: “I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”

    mirrors-images:

    “I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”

     
  4. Notes: 1002 / 2 months ago  from fyeahsylviaplath (originally from fuckyeahtattoos)
    fuckyeahtattoos: My friend and I got matching tattoos of this adorable cat which was done by the flawless Sylvia Plath. Plath has been my inspiration for such a long time, and I knew I wanted something tattoo related to her. Also, I love cats. 

    fuckyeahtattoos:

    My friend and I got matching tattoos of this adorable cat which was done by the flawless Sylvia Plath. Plath has been my inspiration for such a long time, and I knew I wanted something tattoo related to her. Also, I love cats. 

     
  5. Notes: 10 / 2 months ago  from perishingroses
    perishingroses: So today marks the 50th anniversary of Sylvia Plath’s suicide. I will say that I’m truly grateful the work she put out in her short lifetime. Her work helped me get through a rough patch that lasted though my late teens and couple first years in my 20’s. I am aware that I posted this picture already, but it’s my perception of Lady Lazarus, one of her most well poems to date.

    perishingroses:

    So today marks the 50th anniversary of Sylvia Plath’s suicide. I will say that I’m truly grateful the work she put out in her short lifetime. Her work helped me get through a rough patch that lasted though my late teens and couple first years in my 20’s.

    I am aware that I posted this picture already, but it’s my perception of Lady Lazarus, one of her most well poems to date.

     
  6. Notes: 10 / 2 months ago 
    via socioplath@instagram

    via socioplath@instagram

     
  7. Notes: 10 / 2 months ago 
    via contrariwise.org This is Adrienne’s tattoo. Sylvia Plath was has been my favorite writer since I began high school and was my fist true encounter to poetry. I thought it only right to commemorate her talent with a line of her poetry I think truly exemplifies who she was as a writer.

    via contrariwise.org

    This is Adrienne’s tattoo.

    Sylvia Plath was has been my favorite writer since I began high school and was my fist true encounter to poetry. I thought it only right to commemorate her talent with a line of her poetry I think truly exemplifies who she was as a writer.

     
  8. Notes: 109 / 2 months ago  from tattoolit
    tattoolit: And like the cat I have nine times to die. -Lady Lazarus, Sylvia Plath

    tattoolit:

    And like the cat I have nine times to die.
    -Lady Lazarus, Sylvia Plath

     
  9. Notes: 42 / 2 months ago  from whalebreeder
    whalebreeder: Brand new tattoo. My favorite Sylvia Plath poem. 

    whalebreeder:

    Brand new tattoo. My favorite Sylvia Plath poem. 

     
  10. Notes: 499 / 4 months ago  from fuckyeahtattoos
    fuckyeahtattoos: I’ve been obsessed with the writing of Sylvia Plath since I was about 12. She gave me direction, not only in inspiring me to study literature to degree level but giving my life that little bit of direction.  The image is, of course, Sylvia Plath on one of the covers of the bell jar, surrounded by tulips (one of my favourite of her poems) and hooks, an image which reoccurs throughout her poetry.

    fuckyeahtattoos:

    I’ve been obsessed with the writing of Sylvia Plath since I was about 12. She gave me direction, not only in inspiring me to study literature to degree level but giving my life that little bit of direction. 

    The image is, of course, Sylvia Plath on one of the covers of the bell jar, surrounded by tulips (one of my favourite of her poems) and hooks, an image which reoccurs throughout her poetry.

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

Here, I want to collect all the Sylvia Plath tattoos, that I will be also posting on "Loving Sylvia", but I thought it would be cool to have an overview of them in one place, since I realized that some people might be only interested in the literary tattoos and not in other Sylvia stuff. :)

Have fun and get inspired! ;)
 
 

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