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	<title>Synesthesia Garden &#187; emptiness</title>
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		<title>Poetry: &#8220;Tulips&#8221; by Sylvia Plath</title>
		<link>http://synesthesiagarden.com/2009/09/18/poetry-corner-tulips/</link>
		<comments>http://synesthesiagarden.com/2009/09/18/poetry-corner-tulips/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 18 Sep 2009 22:04:40 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>L.</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Infection]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Semiotic]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[emptiness]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[hospitals]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[self-awareness]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[sylvia plath]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://disposabledarling.com/blog/?p=719</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[This is one of my favorite poems ever. 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 [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>This is one of my favorite poems ever.</p>
<p><i>The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.<br />
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.<br />
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly<br />
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.<br />
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.<br />
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses<br />
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.</i></p>
<p><span id="more-719"></span><i>They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff<br />
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.<br />
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.<br />
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,<br />
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,<br />
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,<br />
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.</p>
<p>My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water<br />
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.<br />
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.<br />
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage -<br />
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,<br />
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;<br />
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.</p>
<p>I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat<br />
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.<br />
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.<br />
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley<br />
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books<br />
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.<br />
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.</p>
<p>I didn&#8217;t want any flowers, I only wanted<br />
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.<br />
How free it is, you have no idea how free -<br />
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,<br />
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.<br />
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them<br />
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.</p>
<p>The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.<br />
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe<br />
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.<br />
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.<br />
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down<br />
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,<br />
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.</p>
<p>Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.<br />
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me<br />
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,<br />
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow<br />
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,<br />
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.<br />
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.</p>
<p>Before they came the air was calm enough,<br />
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.<br />
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.<br />
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river<br />
Snags and eddies around a sunken rust-red engine.<br />
They concentrate my attention, that was happy<br />
Playing and resting without committing itself.</p>
<p>The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.<br />
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;<br />
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,<br />
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes<br />
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.<br />
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,<br />
And comes from a country far away as health.</i></p>
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