#sylvia plath poetry
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lovingsylvia · 4 months ago
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Sylvia Plath (age 21) in Wellesley, Massachusetts holding a dandelion puff, c. 29 August 1954
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Palely lit by
snuff-ruffed dandelions, white daisy wheels and a tiger faced
pansy, it glows. O it's no family tree
--Sylvia Plath, from the poem "Polly's Tree", 1959, in: The Collected Poems (1981)
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cinamonngirlie · 8 months ago
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zindagi-se-darte-ho · 1 year ago
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Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
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Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka
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Anne Sexton, Imitations of Drowning
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Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
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todayontumblr · 1 year ago
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Saturday, December 2nd.
Sylvia Plath.
It's a dark and cold day in December and so, naturally, we are left with no choice but to celebrate the sublime and singular talent of Sylvia Plath. That means two entire days of quotes, pictures, and exceptional memes of a literary, existential flavor.
Happy reading, folks. Use your weekends well.
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kittenplath · 1 year ago
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everyday girls are haunted by sylvia plath's fig tree analogy
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dearhearted111 · 7 months ago
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brandyvampirexx · 7 months ago
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Eat a fig for me
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sylviaddict · 1 year ago
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"There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get."
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
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ardent-reflections · 1 year ago
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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
Sylvia Plath
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ahsgirlblogger · 16 days ago
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zindagi-se-darte-ho · 1 year ago
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I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.
— Sylvia Plath
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jansen-dean · 4 months ago
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From the poem "Channel Crossing" by Sylvia Plath
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kittenplath · 8 months ago
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my desire for love haunts me like poetry
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lovingsylvia · 3 months ago
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Gold mouths cry
Gold mouths cry with the green young certainty of the bronze boy remembering a thousand autumns and how a hundred thousand leaves came sliding down his shoulderblades persuaded by his bronze heroic reason. We ignore the coming doom of gold and we are glad in this bright metal season. Even the dead laugh among the goldenrod.
The bronze boy stands kneedeep in centuries, and never grieves, remembering a thousand autumns, with sunlight of a thousand years upon his lips and his eyes gone blind with leaves.
--Sylvia Plath, The Collected Poems (Juvenilia 1952-1956), 1981
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