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Sylvia Plath - Vanity Fair

Through frost-thick weather
This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if
Caught in a hazardous medium that might 
Merely by its continuing
Attach her to heaven.

At eye's envious corner
Crow's-feet copy veining on a stained leaf;
Cold squint steals sky's color; while bruit
Of bells calls holy ones, her tongue
Backtalks at the raven

Claeving furred air
Over her skull's midden; no knife
Rivals her whetted look, divining what conceit
Waylays simple girls, church-going,
And what heart's oven

Craves most to cook batter
Rich in strayings with every amorous oaf,
Ready, for a trinket,
To squander owl-hours on bracken bedding,
Flesh unshriven.

Against virgin prayer
This sorceress sets mirrors enough
To distract beauty's thought;
Lovesick at first fond song,
Each vain girl's driven

To believe beyond heart's flare
No fire is, nor in any book proof
Sun hoists soul up after lids fall shut;
So she wills all to the black king.
The worst sloven

Vies with best queen over
Right to blaze as satan's wife;
Housed in earth, those million brides shriek out.
Some burn short, some long,
Staked in pride's coven.

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Added: Feb 21 2003 | Viewed: 17400 times | Comments and analysis of Vanity Fair by Sylvia Plath Comments (1)

Vanity Fair - Comments and Information

Poet: Sylvia Plath
Poem: Vanity Fair
Poem of the Day: May 25 2010

Comment 1 of 1, added on June 15th, 2007 at 10:22 AM.

Verry sad (arnt a lot of them)
I am guessing at the time she wrote this poem she realy hated her husband and felt tormented and grieved. Beutifull wording, and abstract-ishly detailed. Too bad none of her poems could be so rich in happyness.

safire from United States

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