The Couriers
Viewed 297 timesThe Couriers
by Sylvia Plath
The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.
Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.
A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.
Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling
All to itself on the top of each
Of nine black Alps.
A disturbance in mirrors,
The sea shattering its grey one -
Love, love, my season.
Miscellany
Other poems by Sylvia Plath (read randomly)
In sunless air, under pines
Green to the point of blackness, some
Founding father set these lobed, warped stones
The womb
Rattles its pod, the moon
Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.
The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
Color floods to the spot, dull purple.
The rest of the body is all washed out,
The color of pearl.
Through portico of my elegant house you stalk
With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit …
And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rendin...
Through portico of my elegant house you stalk
With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit …
And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rendin...
Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people …
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
Their shadows must cover Canada.
Gerd sits spindle-shaped in her dark tent,
Lean face gone tawn with seasons ,
Skin worn down to the knucklebones
What a thrill ---
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
