1. 5635
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  2. 68
    22
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    torifiles:

    Trouble’s Lament (Live on Radio France Inter, Paris, France, 2014/04/22)

  3. 213
    22
    Apr
  4. 89
    22
    Apr

    (Source: xstaticprocess, via zravengrl)

  5. 60
    22
    Apr
    yoyomojojojo:

Tori Amos by Cindy Palmano for Boys for Pele. 1996.
Photograph taken in St. Martin Parish, Louisiana.

    yoyomojojojo:

    Tori Amos by Cindy Palmano for Boys for Pele. 1996.

    Photograph taken in St. Martin Parish, Louisiana.

    (via zravengrl)

  6. 135
    22
    Apr
    sylviaplathink:

via cassxx@deviantart.com
Tulips
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-inI am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietlyAs 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 nursesAnd my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuffLike 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 waterTends 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 boatStubbornly hanging on to my name and address.They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolleyI watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my booksSink 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 wantedTo 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 themShutting 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 breatheLightly, 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 meWhere once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadowBetween 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 riverSnags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.They concentrate my attention, that was happyPlaying 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 closesIts 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.



—written 18 March 1961

    sylviaplathink:

    via cassxx@deviantart.com

    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.
    —written 18 March 1961

    (via zravengrl)

  7. 1642
    22
    Apr
    hannigraham:

Alrighty! I decided to make a masterpost for the lovely and talented Sylvia Plath. Here you will find the links I could find to her various works, journals, interviews, and readings. Please enjoy, and if there is any problem with the links or ones that could be added, please contact me via ask. :)

P O E T R Y

Collections:
The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath,(edited by Ted Hughes)
Reading her poetry:
Daddy
Lady Lazarus
Tulips
The Disquieting Muses
Parliament Hill Fields
Berck-Plage
A Birthday Present
The Ghost’s Leavetaking
The Stones
Cut
The Moon Was A Fat Woman Once (The Thin People)
Fever 103
Excerpts from Ariel part 1, part 2, part 3

P R O S E

Novel:
The Bell Jar
Short Story Collections:
Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams 
Superman and Paula Brown’s New Snowsuit
Children’s Books:
The Bed Book,(Illustrated by Quentin Blake)
The It-Doesn’t-Matter-Suit, (Illustrated by Rotraut Susanne Berner)

H E R   L I F E

Her Journals:
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
Interviews with her:
1961 BBC Interview with Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes on Literature and Love
Talking about England
1962 Interview with Peter Orr
Documentaries and such on her:
Sylvia Plath - Marriage by Fate
Voices and Visions
Interviews with those who knew her:
Smith College Sylvia Plath 75th Year Symposium
Frieda Hughes on her mother’s drawings
Q&A with Frieda Hughes
Interview with Ted Hughes

A D A P T A T I O N S

Of her life:
Sylvia (2003)

    hannigraham:

    Alrighty! I decided to make a masterpost for the lovely and talented Sylvia Plath. Here you will find the links I could find to her various works, journals, interviews, and readings. Please enjoy, and if there is any problem with the links or ones that could be added, please contact me via ask. :)

    P O E T R Y

    Collections:

    Reading her poetry:

    P R O S E

    Novel:

    Short Story Collections:

    Children’s Books:

    H E R   L I F E

    Her Journals:

    Interviews with her:

    Documentaries and such on her:

    Interviews with those who knew her:

    A D A P T A T I O N S

    Of her life:

    (via zravengrl)

  8. 127663
    22
    Apr
  9. 317
    21
    Apr

    toriellenamos:

    Tori Amos performing on Saturday Night Live, 1996

    (via caughtalitesneeze)

  10. 66
    21
    Apr
    
"Hey, did you guys come here to talk, or did you come to listen tomusic, 'cause you paid a lot of money I think? No really?"
    "Hey, did you guys come here to talk, or did you come to listen to
    music,
    'cause you paid a lot of money I think? No really?"

    (Source: scoutingforbeards, via zravengrl)

avatar_96
A Celebration of the female form and GLBT imagery...with a little Hannibal/Mads Mikkelsen fangirling now and then.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the material posted unless stated otherwise.
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