Sylvia Plath


It is a chilly god, a god of shades, Rises to the glass from his black fathoms. At the window, those unborn, those undone Assemble with the frail paleness of moths, An envious phosphorescence in their wings. Vermillions, bronzes, colors of the sun In the coal fire will not wholly console them. Imagine their deep hunger, deep as the dark For the blood-heat that would ruddlr or reclaim. The glass mouth sucks blooh-heat from my forefinger. The old god dribbles, in return, his words. The old god, too, write aureate poetry In tarnished modes, maundering among the wastes, Fair chronicler of every foul declension. Age, and ages of prose, have uncoiled His talking whirlwind, abated his excessive temper When words, like locusts, drummed the darkening air And left the cobs to rattle, bitten clean. Skies once wearing a blue, divine hauteur Ravel above us, mistily descend, Thickening with motes, to a marriage with the mire. He hymns the rotten queen with saffron hair Who has saltier aphrodisiacs Than virgins' tears. That bawdy queen of death, Her wormy couriers aer at his bones. Still he hymns juice of her, hot nectarine. I see him, horny-skinned and tough, construe What flinty pebbles and ploughable upturns As ponderable tokens of her love. He, godly, doddering, spells No succinct Gabriel from the letters here But floridly, his amorous nostalgias.

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