Sylvia Plath reading 'Tulips'

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage -
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free -
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

[@roadlesstraveled34]

"Sylvia Plath reading her own work. This is so magical, beyond what I could imagi- WHO WAS THAT?! WHAT ANIMAL COUGHED DURING HER READING?!"

[@aarushiyadav7101]

Maybe it was Ted Hughes 😠

[@pragyavash14]

Thank you for uploading this series. Love then!

[@TudorC]

Pragya Vashishtha every time someone thanks me I feel more motivated to correct and post the remaining 20-something poems I managed to get from the internet :) any day now...

[@pragyavash14]

Tudor Ciurea you're doing such a favour to all of us! 💜😍

[@Torarozario]

Tulips BY SYLVIA PLATH The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons. They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are. My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage-- My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks. I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free-- The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet. The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color, A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck. Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine. They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself. The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health.

[@even-we1js]

Thank you for the uploads

[@yakacm]

I wonder why she was obsessed with pebbles, they seem to feature in a lot of her writing, that and peanut munching, lol.

[@myselfme7945]

In the barock lyrics stones represented death or depression or just lifeless in general. She could maybe refer to that. But I've never heard that plath was interested in barock lyric, so this is just speculation

[@Diesel257]

A pebble does not live but is forced to exist.

[@user-vt6td9hp3g]

@@Diesel257 That is pretty much everything. Stop pretending to be deep.

[@Diesel257]

@@user-vt6td9hp3g I'm sorry your feelings are so fragile.

[@user-vt6td9hp3g]

@@Diesel257 Clearly not as fragile as the person who wrote this poem lmao

[@martinameyer5652]

I have always adored Sylvia Plath. Tried to be like her but I'm not as depressive nor do I have her talent.

[@athenaphillips9539]

Her depression is her talent. I truly believe her major depression is somehow her lover, muse, and talent all at once... It's confessional. No one ever dared to be another Plath. No one had the balls... ever. I'm bipolar type 1. Even I don't She is a whole different breed of poet. Of artist. of girl.

[@colingoode8794]

@@athenaphillips9539 "It seems so unfair That through sadness and despair You helped someone you never knew. Why not you?" Sylvia by Ralph Mctell, a song that refers to Tulips. It seems that the peace that Sylvia describes in this poem comes from a surrender to circumstances, a letting go of her identity. This is a spiritual process as referenced by her describing herself as pure as a nun. The redness and symbolism of the tulip draws herself out of this tranquillity. She becomes subject to the disturbances of her senses. I think that the tulips represent the explosions she says she is free of in the opening stanza. I too am bipolar 1. I find a lot of comfort in this poem. We lost a great potential for more amazing work when Sylvia died. I too know how appealing the lure of death can be when depressed. After all we believe that the dead rest in peace. This may or may not be so. We do know for certain that life can be so painful that death is a preferred alternative. If Sylvia was not a depressive persona she wouldn't have had the depth of feeling and insight to produce the great literature she did. To go to the extremes that she did displays how important it is to maintain a balanced and centred equanimity.

[@atis9061]

Be yourself, don’t be Sylvia

[@ardenalexa94]

@@atis9061exactly. That’s what makes a great poet. Someone who is different from other poets. If it’s all the same, it starts to feel as if it’s not as genuine.

[@MarianMurphy-rz8ej]

A little depression might do you some good Martin in a world like this. At least depressives acknowledge the problem…

[@bernardussloot7410]

Thank you so much. I will never see a red tulip as I did before.

[@Doneallicando]

I hope you'll still see red tulips as beautiful. It is obvious that Plath saw them as unbearably beautiful. They exposed her pain. It's such a wonderful poem, not in any way meant to diminish the beauty of a red tulip.

[@lcfej]

my favourite poem

[@Mark-Smeaton]

If I'm not mistaken, there's a slightly longer recording of this where she's introduced as Sylvia Plath to much applause ?

[@TudorC]

I don't know anything about it, but this recording is the only one that's a public reading (from the way the audio sounds) so I wouldn't be surprised if it existed :D