Several of Sylvia's most influential poems:
Sylvia poetry, often dark, reflects and parallels her life in mood, tone and the theme of the poem itself. Being very honest with her writings, Sylvia's poems often seem to come from a dark recess carefully feathered beneath the mask of perfectionism she crafted over herself. The depth of her work demonstrates the depression she struggled with, as she fought to stand in a world which would eventually prove much too unbecoming.
Among her most prominent works are:

Lady Lazarus

by Sylvia Plath

<span style="font-family: verdana,arial,'lucida sans',helvetica,geneva,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--
 
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
 
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
 
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?--
 
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
 
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
 
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
 
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
 
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
 
Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
 
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
 
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
 
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
 
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
 
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
 
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
 
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
 
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
 
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
 
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.
 
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
 
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
 
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
 
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
 
Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--
 
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
 
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
 
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.</span>

Daddy

by Sylvia Plath

<span style="font-family: verdana,arial,'lucida sans',helvetica,geneva,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
 
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
 
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
 
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
 
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
 
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
 
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
 
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
 
I have always been scared of //you//,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--
 
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
 
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
 
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
 
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
 
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
 
If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
 
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always //knew// it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.</span>

Morning Song

by Sylvia Plath

<span style="font-family: verdana,arial,'lucida sans',helvetica,geneva,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
 
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival.  New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety.  We stand round blankly as walls.
 
I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.
 
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses.  I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
 
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's.  The window square
 
Whitens and swallows its dull stars.  And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.</span>