photo challenge: bardzo lalkowy sierpień – 05: czerń / black celebration

* [wszystkie cytaty pochodzą z wierszy i dzienników Sylvii Plath]

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

The candle 
Gulps and recovers its small altitude, 
Its yellows heaten.

Frustrated? Yes. Why? Because it is impossible for me to be God — or the universal woman-and-man — or anything much.
I am what I feel and think and do. I want to express my being as fully as I can because I somewhere picked up the idea
that I could justify my being alive that way. 

 This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

I desire the things which will destroy me in the end. 

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. 
But you can’t start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It’s like quicksand… hopeless from the start. 

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.

It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral 
In my Victorian nightgown 

O my God, what am I 
That these late mouths should cry open 
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

I 
Am a pure acetylene 
Virgin 
Attended by roses, 
By kisses, by cherubim, 
By whatever these pink things mean.

I am a lantern – 
My head a moon 
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin 
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer,
Beware.
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

Miracles occur, 
if you care to call those spasmodic 
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait’s begun again, 
The long wait for the angel, 
For that rare, random descent.

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. 

 * [wszystkie cytaty pochodzą z wierszy i dzienników Sylvii Plath]