Lady Lazarus (the poem)

by Sylvia Plath


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.


7x5pjg85n7|0000ABC8|msalou|articles|soma
7x5pjg85n8|0000ABC871B5|msalou|articles|soma|466CBD01-8EBD-452B-B925-F1F1E9B185DD
Copyright © 2023 Maria Salouvardou Terms of use
We use cookies to personalize content and experience and analyze our traffic. We don't share any information with third parties. Google, youtube, and Facebook may collect some information. We are using google analytics, google maps, Facebook pixel, and youtube video player. If you continue to use pubbuh.com, you agree with our terms.Ok