(1)
This is the sea, then, this great abeyance.
How the sun's poultice draws on my inflammation.Electrifyingly-colored sherbets, scooped from the freeze
By pale girls, travel the air in scorched hands.Why is it so quiet, what are they hiding?
I have two legs, and I move smilingly..A sandy damper kills the vibrations;
It stretches for miles, the shrunk voicesWaving and crutchless, half their old size.
The lines of the eye, scalded by these bald surfaces,Boomerang like anchored elastics, hurting the owner.
Is it any wonder he puts on dark glasses?Is it any wonder he affects a black cassock?
Here he comes now, among the mackerel gatherersWho wall up their backs against him.
They are handling the black and green lozenges like the parts of a body.The sea, that crystallized these,
Creeps away, many-snaked, with a long hiss of distress.(2)
This black boot has no mercy for anybody.
Why should it, it is the hearse of a dad foot,The high, dead, toeless foot of this priest
Who plumbs the well of his book,The bent print bulging before him like scenery.
Obscene bikinis hid in the dunes,Breasts and hips a confectioner's sugar
Of little crystals, titillating the light,While a green pool opens its eye,
Sick with what it has swallowed----Limbs, images, shrieks. Behind the concrete bunkers
Two lovers unstick themselves.O white sea-crockery,
What cupped sighs, what salt in the throat....And the onlooker, trembling,
Drawn like a long materialThrough a still virulence,
And a weed, hairy as privates.(3)
On the balconies of the hotel, things are glittering.
Things, things----Tubular steel wheelchairs, aluminum crutches.
Such salt-sweetness. Why should I walkBeyond the breakwater, spotty with barnacles?
I am not a nurse, white and attendant,
YOU ARE READING
Sylvia Plath Poetry
PoesieSylvia Plath Poetry is a book filled with the content of Sylvia Plath's poems. Sylvia Plath was an American poet, novelist, and short story writer. Plath's work often was singled out for the intense coupling of its violent or disturbed imagery and...