Sylvia Plath reading 'Lady Lazarus'
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- Опубликовано: 4 окт 2024
- 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
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify? -
[Yes, yes Herr Professor]
[It is I.]
[Can you deny]
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.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone, [I may be Japanese,]
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.
Dying
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
Amused shout:
‘A miracle!’
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.
Ash, ash -
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there -
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
Sylvia could not only fashion her poems out of the finest of marble, she could also deliver them like a Queen delivering an edict to her subjects.
Thanks for the kudos.
@@bobdobbs7000 Thank you for the wonderful similes!
She's got issues lol
@@SpoonLegend Expand your thoughts, please.
@@miyojewoltsnasonth2159 Crazy suicidal woman that writes in riddles.
To read her was one thing, to hear her ,another. Plath's voice is as moving as her poetry. Thankyou so much for sharing this!!
The Queen ❤❤❤❤🎉
There's no tinge of vulnerability in her voice. It's power, it's the light of the blind, the heart of the unloved!
Love this comment. 🤍
I disagree; it's the vulnerability that makes her powerful.
"Night of the blind". That's lovely. Is it a play on Plath's line from The Moon & The Yew Tree, "This is the light of the mind" ?
This was a wonderful experience. I had to take a moment to let it sink in. This was Sylvia Plath, the woman i adore, her voice, her words echo in me even after her death. I never got to meet this woman, but this opportunity, to hear her vocalise her words was a privilege. Thank you for sharing this.
it's weird how much love i have for someone i've never met and never will, just the weight of her words and the sound of her voice makes me feel like i could know her. she was just a wonderful human being, too bad mental disorders took the best of her. i always cry thinking about her death.
Just a crazy bastard
@@SpoonLegend an extremely talented crazy bastard
@@callumwarren3342 no....
@@SpoonLegend why are you everywhere? Find a home
"Gentlemen, ladies
these are my hands, my knees
I maybe skin and bones,
I maybe Japanese"
for me her reading these words is most magic in this poem
Was that verse edited out? "I may be Japanese" ? Oh having her recording with the original version is such a wonder
@@oumaimaelkhaili6944 Yes, it was edited out by Ted Hughes back when it was first published. I have a full, unedited version of this from later releases of Ariel.
These recordings are a real treasure. What a beautiful voice and delivery; the pauses, the rhythm, the words, the emotion. The music of it all.
All her poems are so deep, she was literally saying that she planned to k*** herself and she knew no one would stop her
Posting for myself.
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
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
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.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
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.
Dying
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
Amused shout:
‘A miracle!’
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.
Ash, ash-
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
She was able to use her personal experiences, disappointments and defeats to craft a unique poetry. Always trying to separate her emotions from the poetic self , she added more psychological drama to it in order to give an exceptional effect to each composition. I simply love it!
I love you, Sylvia Plath. Thank you for helping me grasp the concept of reality, during times when my thoughts only brought me down.
I wear your words like a crown.
I am proud of the woman I am now.
No longer ash-covered
I rise with hair ash-colored
And I love with conviction
And am fair.
Having been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder her poetry has become palpably relatable!
Same here !! Wishing you the best. ❤️
@@juliette-4339 Thank you. Things aren't great mood lability is really bad. I hope you are doing well 🙂
i haven't been diagnosed but i relate strongly w terribly poor mood liability. i love you buddy
Unbelievable. Thank you so much for sharing this truly historical moment.
Dying
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.
This was my favourite verse from the poem, too.
Many, many thanks for providing Sylvia's own reading of the poems from " Ariel " and, also for highlighting my comment. Your site is superb.
I thank you! :D
Wow.... Wow. This is the first time I've heard her voice. It is not what I expected. It's so much much much MORE. It's so haunting and it's so deep and fitting and true to the feeling and the words.
I really like this reading by Sylvia Plath. I am infatuated with her poetry and it is very interesting to hear her perform. I also love that poem, in particular the quote 'dying is an art', and find it quite beautiful and sensitive.
My eyes are never dry by the time I finish listening to this. Sometimes I sob uncontrollably. Other times, a single tear rolls down my cheek. I don’t know if it’s the pain in her voice and the words and the fact that I can relate to her pain, but it gets me every time.
I discovered in my early teens. Still, I am not at all certain that teens should read her.
dying is an art
Dying is a tragedy, induced by fallenness.
Truly brainwashed by AP lit class aint you? Weirdo
...like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
@@fernandavelez6582 I do it so it feels like hell
@@smokeymcpot69 I do it so it feels real.
I must have read this poem a thousand times but only just heard the poet reading it. Sounds very like TS Eliot only way more angry.
When she said "I rise" I suddenly felt alive.
Goosebumps. Unbelievable.
She has such power to her voice, she was such an incredible artist.
Rest in Peace Sylvia. ❤️
the love i have for this woman and her art
Amazing! You have to hear Sylvia read her own poems. You can hear her pain.
Wish you a very Happy Birthday Sylvia. We're so glad to find you. Maybe one day I'll dedicate my book to you.
I feel like Sylvia just gets me. 🖤🥀
I am learning about Plath in my english class. And this is really great source. I love how she reads her poem ^^
Daunie Kim, I so agree.
The amused shout a miracle it knocks me out
You rise red hair
I rise with blonde
What a gradient it'd be
Well meet at hell
Under the church bell
Then we stop talking
Remember, silence speaks...
Daaaaammmmn this woman was something else😢
Whoa. That hurt.
And I a smiling woman! :")
I think the smiling woman line refers ti the way skulls appear to be smiling. Shes saying shell be dead and she'll be smiling
This poem is chilling ❤
Sylvia Plath is my favorite poet
She reminds me of Nabokov
Same ❤️
Really thankful these exist,
¡Magnífico!
Bellissima. Un’ emozione sentirla nella lingua di Silvia Plath anche se non la capisco poiché non conosco l’inglese ma la traduzione italiana la so a memoria.
Sylvia, my dearly beloved. ❤
astounding, captivating
Dark but amazing poem about the body & her dark experience
Wish she had lived longer❤❤❤
well i accidentally listened to this so many times that i've got it memorized
I think this poem is about bullying. Brilliant. Thank you Sylvia ❤
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
The first poet I ever read. Thus began a lifelong love affair with poetry.
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
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
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.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
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.
Dying
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
Amused shout:
‘A miracle!’
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.
Ash, ash-
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air
Goosebumps
The first poem in English I genuinely like.
How many have you read?lmao.
Absolute brilliance.
I love you
I love you
I love you
I want to die with you
You are not a mad girl
You are my hearts heart
Thanks Silvia, wonderful! still I love you!
Я сделала это опять.
Раз в десять лет
Mне удается сие -
Вроде ходячего чуда, кожа моя,
Как абажур нацистский, светла,
Правая стопа -
пресс-папье,
Лицо лишено черт,
Тонкая еврейская простыня.
Сдери салфетку с меня
Неужели, о, мой враг,
Ужасаю тебя так? -
Нос, полный набор зубов, глазницы
Резкий запах кислоты
Через день испарится.
Скоро, скоро плоть
Пожрет могилы пасть,
Что станет домом моим опять,
Мне только тридцать.
Я женщина. Я улыбаюсь.
У меня, как у кошки, девять смертей.
Эта по счету третья.
Что однако за напасть -
Каждую декаду себя убивать.
a, merci beaucoup!
Спасибо, по русски мне даже больше нравится.
@@MisokoFukumoto ??? "Danke sehr" then too.
jesus what an amazing poem.
She cut the line "I may be Japanese" at the suggestion of Al Alvarez. He queried, "But why Japanese?" He seriously regretted this later. "I was wrong. She was right. She needed the extra rhyme."
It's racist anyway, and it just feels silly compared to most other rhymes in the poem
I’m not here. Never been here. Never heard it. I'm tired of rebel against my destiny. What is destiny, Lazarus.
- No
The first death metal lyrics!
So beautiful and dark
I have tô read this OUT LOUD for a Project. How can I compete with this?
I am. I am. I am. ❤
I slip into vain admirings within my disguise of my own poems of temporal humor, or in compared lighting with my kindly effected delusions in their toiled meanings aft naught and unwell yet seemingly I jest with insignificance.
what
Didn't expect her voice to be so 🤠
Oh my gosh!
A companion piece could be hawk roosting or pike.
So good.
IT RHYMES IT FUCKING RHYMES!!!!!
I have this in print but it seems to be missing a few lines/words.
From what I know, this poem was published after her passing. A lot of her works were edited then and of course, she couldn't do anything about it. This reading seems to be the unedited version. That may be the reason why some lines are missing in the published version.
Somehow her voice reminds me of Ingrid Bergmann, but heavier.
We're good yes.
Next to 'Elm' the best of the best.
how genius
it means so much more, why had no one pointed me in this direction
excellent !!
She’s good.
David Bowie brought me here
wow.
Wow
She really stradled those phonemes
Was this her natural accent, or did she put it on when reading her poetry?
I am surprised because she was American.
#CONFUSED
Sounds pretty American to me
She lived in England for a few years
@@catmorgan6931 England must have really agreed with her!
It’s a Boston accent with English inflections, but she was not above sheer virtuosic invention such as her punched delivery of the word « anihilate » in Lady Lazarus, also on RUclips... seriously, it’s unique to her, a d a way to allude to that Eau de Nil perfume which in the mid- or late fifties was widely advertised (all per her diaries)
having thrice refused the Marriott, the Marriott, the Marriott, Sylvia read these unpublished poems for the BBC .. “Woe is Sylvie...” and she gyod-out just in t’chaim..
Her daughter sounds similar.
Well, hello... we meet again!
Listened to this some time ago, now I’m currently reading the bell jar and in my mind i made up a voice that I didn’t know from where it was, until now. My mind remembered her🤍
02:59
I was ten
1:36
Is this her real voice?
Yes
Sounds like she expected to be saved from her suicide again, and wanted to repeat it every ten years ...
1:38 Scorn sample, Nothing Hunger from Colossus
“I do it so it feels like hell
I do it so it feels real”
…. Lady Lazarus wasn’t published until after she died, how does this exist?
She wrote many poems before her death that were put into the book Ariel. Some of the poems went by different names with longer stanzas but after a while, she changed the names of them, shortened some poems and put her final touches on the poems before she committed suicide. Ariel was released two years after her death I believe. I think these recordings were also taken from the poem readings she did on a radio show or something on the order like that.
@@YourMusic-JoshuaWilliams - You’re a liar! It’s become evident you haven’t delved into a stock pile of research papers and perused them with a meticulous eye, the way i have. I’ll tell you the real reason why. Some of her poems went by different names. She later curtailed them and embellished them before committing suicide. They were then released years later. These recordings were taken from poem readings she did on a radio show. Educate yourself!!!!
@@sergiomerino1434 Does it really matter? That’s what I just said. I don’t really see why I would have to lie about this. And I’m not even sure why someone would lie about the making of poetry. Recently I have learned about her work and I came across this video, I was curious of how she sounded. I’m no expert in her work and I never will be but I was just pointing out observations in the restored edition of Ariel. I heard this came from a radio show and thats all I was saying to answer the above question. Some poems went by different names until she picked a name that was best suited for it. You can see that in Ariel: The Restored Edition which includes poems that were originally taken out and put in by her then husband. You don’t have to research everything to understand what was going on with the process of her making these poems.
When did she read this one? I thought this was written close to her passing?
It’s doing nothing for me. Is my imagination not rendering graphics adequately? I think I need to see a movie a show about it
Her pacing is awful. At least she was a good writer.
You know how English teachers act with meanings in authors work. I am that teacher with her poems.
i eat men like air
yes i am watching this again while sobbing...
1:33