OctPoWriMo Day 1 the theme is surrender. I’m combining with MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Sunday Writing Prompt on the poem, “ Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath. Also , using a photo prompt from NEKNEERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie.
Credit: Natalia Ruka
She rises, you think she’d shrink,
Lose her footing with knobby bones, bloody footprints;
But, she’s a miracle and survives despite —
The annihilation of her heart.
No surrender, no train cars full of the sick and dying;
No camps of death will kill her.
She won’t surrender, she’ll paint you a dream,
A masterpiece of despair and scribbled features.
A portrait or less, no seashell rocking shut;
She rasps, vapours of her lost innocence.
With battered purple sockets.
A dream or nightmare trawling.
I have no dreams of innocence, only a suffering spitefulness for your hate.
Words that shattered the cracked mirror,
Seventy times seven bad luck.
Miss Plath, your words are riddled traps.
She fakes death, blood and bone snapped;
Flesh from hands shredded.
Your terror camps and eyes of sunken sin,
Can’t make her alive, though she’s not yet, dead.
Be on guard for those caught in-between;
Those who aren’t afraid as the breath in their lungs rattles.
Beware of those who see death and leave life;
The exact meeting of one leaving the elevator, while the other travels home.
Beware of hair as hellfire, she the angel of death;
No surrender, for none was given her.
Beware her yawning grin,
And hollow eyes as she devours men like air;
Destiny with her twisted wings,
Her opalescent fluttering, a sheen that hides the bitter.
Her charcoal hands twitching as they sketch the twilight of death.
“Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
My face a featureless, fine
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?——
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.
These are my hands
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
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