by Sylvia Plath
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Ariel 4.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 8 reviews.
ShaneParrish More than 1 year ago
Sylvia Plath's book Ariel is haunting and beautiful. The words reach out and touch the reader. For me they also draw out the muse and I find myself compelled to sit and write. Very good book for anyone interested in poetry.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
Sylvia Plath is one of the most orginal poets. What is interesting about Plath's poetry is the fact you have understand her biography to understand the poetry. Her poems 'Daddy' and 'Lady Lazarus' display her raw talent and it will continue to awe audinces of all ages.
library_grrl85 More than 1 year ago
These poems did not make me cry. Instead they made me bleed, they left my hands to scorch, they sterilised my mind of 'normal' thought for hours, perhaps days, & eventually those poems would bring me to my knees. The edges of each line, the edges of each stanza, what were they but blades from which steam would glow, very hot. Indeed there is an inhuman element in the fuel of such lyricism. Inhuman, alien, animal, supernatural? By the end of the book I was quite nearly consumed by a desire, even a feral lust, to worship, to worship a pure entity whose name, the relentless incantation, must signify, for lack of better vocabulary, 'that sorceress, the one which is driven by the Implacable Contained Fury'. ++MY FAVOURITE LINES++ From 'Cut': What a thrill--My thumb instead of an onion. The top quite gone Except for a sort of a hinge Of skin, A flap like a hat, Dead white. Then that red plush. From 'Lady Lazarus': 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. From 'Fever 103': Pure? What does it mean? The tongues of hell Are dull, dull as the triple Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable Of licking clean The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin. From 'Ariel': White Godiva, I unpeel--Dead hands, dead stringencies. And now I Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas. The child's cry Melts in the wall. And I Am the arrow, The dew that flies, Suicidal, at one with the drive Into the red Eye, the cauldron of morning.