Pieces of Plath

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.

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.

Early Life

• October 27, 1932

Professional Life

LamentThe sting of bees took away my fatherwho walked in a swarming shroud of wingsand scorned the tick of the falling weather.

Lightning licked in a yellow latherbut 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 prongsand 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 anotherman who can mangle the grin of kings:the sting of bees took away my fatherwho scorned the tick of the falling weather.

What The Critics Say

Firesong

Born green we wereto this flawed garden,but in speckled thickets, warted as a toad,spitefully skulks our warden,fixing his snarewhich hauls down buck, cock, trout, till all most fairis tricked to faulter in split blood.

Now our whole task's to hacksome angel-shape worth wearingfrom his crabbed midden where all's wrought so awrythat no straight inquiringcould unlockshrewd catch silting our each bright act backto unmade mud cloaked by sour sky.

Sweet salts warped stemof weeds we tackle towards way's rank ending;scorched by red sunwe heft globed flint, racked in veins' barbed bindings;brave love, dreamnot of staunching such strict flame, but come,lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.

Agreements

Disagreements

The DeadRevolving 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 bedWorld-wrecked, they seek only oblivion.

Rolled round with goodly loam and cradled deep,These bone shanks will not wake immaculateTo trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day : They loll forever in colossal sleep;Nor can God's stern, shocked angels cry them upFrom their fond, final, infamous decay.