The woman is perfected.
Hear dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusions of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her hare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of mil, now empty.
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odours bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

Sylvia Plath (Ariel, 1963)
Este fue el último poema que escribió Sylvia Plath a seis días de su muerte. 
La despedida es irrevocable y definitiva.

2 comentarios:

  1. No soy mucho de Sylvia Plath :) Nunca hemos conectado, salvo algún poema que me sé de memoria el resto de la obra nunca ha llegado a llamarme del todo. No sé si es por compararla sin parar con Hughes y Sexton que me gustan mucho más. Te dejo uno de esos poemas de Plath que me encantan.

    By Candlelight
    This is winter, this is night, small love --
    A sort of black horsehair,
    A rough, dumb country stuff
    Steeled with the sheen
    Of what green stars can make it to our gate.
    I hold you on my arm.
    It is very late.
    The dull bells tongue the hour.
    The mirror floats us at one candle power.

    This is the fluid in which we meet each other,
    This haloey radiance that seems to breathe
    And lets our shadows wither
    Only to blow
    Them huge again, violent giants on the wall.
    One match scratch makes you real.

    At first the candle will not bloom at all --
    It snuffs its bud
    To almost nothing, to a dull blue dud.

    I hold my breath until you creak to life,
    Balled hedgehog,
    Small and cross. The yellow knife
    Grows tall. You clutch your bars.
    My singing makes you roar.
    I rock you like a boat
    Across the Indian carpet, the cold floor,
    While the brass man
    Kneels, back bent, as best he can

    Hefting his white pillar with the light
    That keeps the sky at bay,
    The sack of black! It is everywhere, tight, tight!
    He is yours, the little brassy Atlas --
    Poor heirloom, all you have,
    At his heels a pile of five brass cannonballs,
    No child, no wife.
    Five balls! Five bright brass balls!
    To juggle with, my love, when the sky falls.

    1. Yo de momento le estoy intentando pillar el gusto. A 'Ariel' le he dado tres estrellas en Goodreads. Eso sí, tiene poemas que me parecen increíbles, sobre todo los más cercanos a su muerte. Tengo que probar con Hughes (tengo aquí 'El azor en el páramo') y con Sexton, así que ya te contaré.
      El poema es maravilloso Jose, muchas gracias por compartirlo :)
      ¡Un beso y gracias por pasarte!