Myślałem sobie dzisiaj rano o Sylvii Plath, trochę pod wpływem niedawnej (odświeżonej) lektury Boga Bestii A. Alvareza (ale także z powodu pełni księżyca, której nie znoszę najlepiej...). I z dużą (depresyjną) przyjemnością przeczytałem znowu wiersz Lady Lazarus, którym niniejszym pragnę się z obserwatorami hiperrealizmu podzielić.
Sylvia Plath
Lady Lazarus
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.
23-29
October 1962
