United States, (1932-1963)
Sow
- God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
- His great sow:
- Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
- In the same way
- He kept the sow–impounded from public stare,
- Prize ribbon and pig show.
- But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
- Through his lantern-lit
- Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
- To gape at it:
- This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
- With a penny slot
- For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
- About to be
- Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
- In a parsley halo;
- Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
- MireRsmirched, blowzy,
- Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout —
- cruise–
- Bloat tun of milk
- On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
- Shrilling her hulk
- To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
- Brobdingnag bulk
- Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
- compost,
- Fat-rutted eyes
- Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
- must
- Thus wholly engross
- The great grandam!–our marvel blazoned a knight,
- Helmed, in cuirass,
- Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
- By a grisly-bristled
- Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow’s heat.
- But our farmer whistled,
- Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
- And the green-copse-castled
- Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
- Slowly, grunt
- On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
- A monument
- Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
- Made lean Lent
- Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
- Proceeded to swill
- The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
- continent.
Sylvia Plath. The Colossus and Other Poems. New York: Vintage, 1962.
Editor’s Note:
Here is an audio recording (763KB) of Sylvia Plath reciting ‘Sow.’ plath.mp3
Totem
- The engine is killing the track the track is silver,
- It stretches into the distance It will be eaten nevertheless.
- Its running is useless.
- At nightfall there is the beauty of drowned fields,
- Dawn gilds the farmers like pigs,
- Swaying slightly in their thick suits,
- White towers of Smithfield ahead,
- Fat haunches and blood on their minds.
- There is no mercy in the glitter of cleavers,
- The butcher’s guillotine that whispers: “How’s this, how’s this?”
- In the bowl the hare is aborted,
- Its baby head out of the way, embalmed in spice,
- Flayed of fur and humanity.
- Let us eat it like Plato’s afterbirth,
- Let us eat it like Christ.
- These are the people that were important—
- Their round eyes, their teeth, their grimaces
- On a stick that rattles and clicks, a counterfeit snake.
- Shall the hood of the cobra appal me—
- The loneliness in its eye, the eye of the mountains
- Through which the sky eternally threads itself?
- The world is blood-hot and personal
- Dawn says, with its blood-flush.
- There is no terminus, only suitcases
- Out of which the same self unfolds like a suit
- Bald and shiny, with pockets of wishes,
- Notions and tickets, short circuits and folding mirrors.
- I am mad, calls the spider, waving its many arms.
- And in truth it is terrible,
- Multipued in the eyes of the flies.
- They buzz like blue children
- In nets of the infinite,
- Roped in at the end by the one
- Death with its many sticks.
Sylvia Plath. Ariel. New York: Harper & Row (1966).
Stillborn
- These poems do not live: it’s a sad diagnosis.
- They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
- Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
- If they missed out on walking about like people
- It wasn’t for any lack of mother-love.
- O I cannot explain what happened to them!
- They are proper in shape and number and every part.
- They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!
- They smile and smile and smile at me.
- And still the lungs won’t fill and the heart won’t start.
- They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
- Though they have a piggy and a fishy air —
- It would be better if they were alive, and that’s what they were.
- But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,
- And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.
Sylvia Plath. Crossing the Water: transitional poems. New York: Harper & Row (1971).
About the Poet
Sylvia Plath (1932-1963), US poet and novelist. Plath was married to poet Ted Hughes and she committed suicide at age 30. She was a Pulitzer Prize-winner (posthumously) for Collected Poems, edited by Hughes.
Plath is a heroine to many feminist readers for her intense and harrowing confessional poetry. [DES-6/03]