Plath: Burning the Letters

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 171
　　　
　　　Burning the Letters

I made a fire; being tired
Of the white fists of old
Letters and their death rattle
When I came too close to the wastebasket.
What did they know that I didn't?
Grain by grain, they unrolled
Sands where a dream of clear water
Grinned like a getaway car.
I am not subtle
Love, love, and well, I was tired
Of cardboard cartons the color of cement or a dog pack
Holding in its hate
Dully, under a pack of men in red jackets,
And the eyes and times of the postmarks.

This fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless:
A glass case
My fingers would enter although
They melt and sag, they are told
Do not touch.
And here is an end to the writing,
The spry hooks that bend and cringe, and the smiles, the smiles.
And at least it will be a good place now, the attic.
At least I won't be strung just under the surface,
Dumb fish
With one tin eye,
Watching for glints,
Riding my Arctic
Between this wish and that wish.

So I poke at the carbon birds in my housedress.
They are more beautiful than my bodiless owl,
They console me—
Rising and flying, but blinded.
They would flutter off, black and glittering, they would be coal angels
Only they have nothing to say to anybody.
I have seen to that.
With the butt of a rake
I flake up papers that breathe like people,
I fan them out
Between the yellow lettuces and the German cabbage
Involved in its weird blue dreams,
Involved as a foetus.
And a name with black edges

Wilts at my foot,
Sinuous orchis
In a nest of root-hairs and boredom—
Pale eyes, patent-leather gutturals!
Warm rain greases my hair, extinguishes nothing.
My veins glow like trees.
The dogs are tearing a fox. This is what it is like—
A red burst and a cry
That splits from its ripped bag and does not stop
With the dead eye
And the stuffed expression, but goes on
Dyeing the air,
Telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the water
What immortality is. That it is immortal.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　13 August 1962

普拉斯《诗全编》
第171首

　　　焚信

我生了火；因为厌倦
旧情书的白拳头
以及它们死亡唠叨，
我离废纸篓太近了。
我不这样它们能知道什么？
一颗接一颗，它们展开
沙粒，本来那儿有碧水似的梦
咧着嘴笑，像溃逃的汽车。
我并不机巧，
爱啊，爱，好吧，我厌倦了
纸箱，水泥色，或者卑鄙的一摞
一腔愤恨，
呆呆地，屏息守在一帮红夹克男人下面，
邮戳的眼睛和日期。

这火舌可能会轻舔慢吞，但不是慈悲：
一只玻璃盒，
我的手指可以伸进去，不过
它们已熔化，松塌，已被告知
“不可触摸”。
这儿，信的终点，
这些欢快的钩子曲意奉承，粲然微笑，微笑。
起码，那是个不错的地方，小阁楼。
起码，我不会被从表皮下串起来，
哑巴的鱼
有一只铁皮眼，
看着火光，
驶过我那介于
这个愿望与那个愿望之间的北极圈。

所以我穿着居家便服，搅起这些碳鸟。
它们比我那些无形的猫头鹰来得漂亮，
能安慰我——
升腾且飞翔，但已经瞎了。
它们会鼓翼而去，黑黑的、闪着光，会化作煤天使，
只是它们没有话要说给任何人。
这一点我已做到。
用耙子的牙齿
扬起片片像活人一样呼吸的薄纸，
将它们挥散，
落入黄色生菜与德国包菜之间，
卷进这些菜的蓝色怪梦，
像一只胚胎卷入其中。
一个带着黑边的名字

在我脚下枯萎，
蛇行兰花，
长在厌倦与根须绒毛的巢穴中——
苍白的眼睛，黑漆合成革的喉音！
温雨油润我的头发，扑灭不了任何东西。
我的脉管如树木生长。
这些狗在撕裂一只狐狸。大概也就如此吧——
一次红色的爆裂，一声惨叫，
那叫声从撕开的皮囊中尖嚣而起，不因为
那只死眼睛
以及塞满填料的表情而停止，而是进一步
映染空气，
告诉云朵的微粒、树叶以及流水，
什么叫做不朽。这才是不朽。
　　　　　　　　　　　1962 年8月13日