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Pieces of Plath

Pieces of Plath. Sylvia Plath, 1932 - 1963. By Staci Gelatka , Josh Kurisko , Noah Meester , and Sanjay Nimmagudda. The Hanging Man By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.    I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.

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Pieces of Plath

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  1. Pieces of Plath Sylvia Plath, 1932 - 1963 By Staci Gelatka, Josh Kurisko, Noah Meester, and Sanjay Nimmagudda

  2. The Hanging Man By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.    I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet. The nights snapped out of sight like a lizard’s eyelid:    A world of bald white days in a shadeless socket. A vulturous boredom pinned me in this tree.    If he were I, he would do what I did.

  3. Early Life • October 27, 1932 • Boston, MA • Younger brother Warren • 1940: Father dies • 1941: 1st published poem • 1951: First signs/attempt of suicide • 1963: Death by suicide

  4. Lament The sting of bees took away my father who walked in a swarming shroud of wings and scorned the tick of the falling weather. Lightning licked in a yellow lather but missed the mark with snaking fangs: the sting of bees too away my father. Trouncing the sea like a ragin bather, he rode the flood in a pride of prongs and scorned the tick of the falling weather. A scowl of sun struck down my mother, tolling her grave with golden gongs, but the sting of bees took away my father. He counted the guns of god a bother, laughed at the ambush of angels' tongues, and scorned the tick of the falling weather. O ransack the four winds and find another man who can mangle the grin of kings: the sting of bees took away my father who scorned the tick of the falling weather.

  5. Professional Life

  6. Influence on Poetry

  7. Firesong Born green we were to this flawed garden, but in speckled thickets, warted as a toad, spitefully skulks our warden, fixing his snare which hauls down buck, cock, trout, till all most fair is tricked to faulter in split blood. Now our whole task's to hack some angel-shape worth wearing from his crabbed midden where all's wrought so awry that no straight inquiring could unlock shrewd catch silting our each bright act back to unmade mud cloaked by sour sky. Sweet salts warped stem of weeds we tackle towards way's rank ending; scorched by red sun we heft globed flint, racked in veins' barbed bindings; brave love, dream not of staunching such strict flame, but come, lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.

  8. What The Critics Say • “..balance, control, a sense of form and rhythm, and even a degree of detachment.” • “..anguish and consequent longing for death.” • “.. energy, the creative inflaming of particular images,..”

  9. Agreements

  10. Disagreements

  11. The Dead Revolving in oval loops of solar speed, Couched in cauls of clay as in holy robes, Dead men render love and war no heed, Lulled in the ample womb of the full-tilt globe. No spiritual Caesars are these dead; They want no proud paternal kingdom come; And when at last they blunder into bed World-wrecked, they seek only oblivion. Rolled round with goodly loam and cradled deep, These bone shanks will not wake immaculate To trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day : They loll forever in colossal sleep; Nor can God's stern, shocked angels cry them up From their fond, final, infamous decay.

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