out of the ash i rise with my red hair and i eat men like air

anonymous asked:

Poetry recs? Like your absolute absolute favourites

Okay these are the ones that made me die a little

Lady Lazarus
Sylvia Plath, 1932 - 1963
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

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.

—  Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus”
Black Hearts

Thanks to the amazing @bkwrm523 for beta-ing this. This is by far my favorite Spideypool x Reader fic I have written. Hope you enjoy it!

Originally posted by sandra-san


You stand in front of you apartment door, fumbling for the key in your bag. You hear your boyfriends’ muffled voices coming from the other side of the door; smiling you unlock the door and barge right in. The first person you see is Peter, who is leaning against the counter, spatula in hand. Setting the bag down on the floor, you move into the kitchen. And that’s when you see Wade, sprawled out on the couch, watching television.

“Fellas, what’s going on?” You grin, moving toward Peter, who pulls you into a hug and not letting go until he places a kiss on your forehead.

“I’m making tacos tonight, per Wade’s request,” Peter informs you; you look up at the brown haired man, placing a hand on his cheek.

“You’re too good to us, Peter Parker.”

He smiles, turning his attention back to the ground beef cooking on the stove. You move around the counter towards the couch, where Wade pulls you down onto his lap.

“How was work, sweet buns?” He smirks as his hand rides up your shirt.

Keep reading

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.

anonymous asked:

Hi! I love your blog and how funny and sweet you are xx I was wondering if you had any favorite quotes or such?

you are so lovely—

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus


A mother’s despair of separation 
Needed no mark.
Her anguish looks back at you
Through the ink spots
And small words,
Useless words when the ethereal is in play.
The co-joining and sharing
Of organs and bones.

The word filicide was burnt to her forehead.
So all men will know she is cursed with blood of the martyr.
What an honor,
She is satisfied from the cunt up.

She was born from the dust,
And her breath always smelled of blood
She knew the secret paths 
And warned them all of the speaking serpent.

He, she feverishly feigned embrace
Through the votive venial 
And gallant violence. 

She is not forgiven,
Nor will she ever be clean.

anonymous asked:

top 6 poems? and favorite lines from them?

  1. Lady Lazarus - Out of the ash rise with my red hair / And I eat men like air. (x)
  2. The Second Coming - And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, / Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? (x)
  3. For Women Who Are Difficult To Love - but you are always too intense / frightening in the way you want him / unashamed and sacrificial  (x)
  4. The Waste Land - To Carthage then I came / Burning burning burning burning (x)
  5. Love is the Master - How could anyone make a pact with a hurricane? (x)
  6. Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out - You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say / or love me back. (x)

But also -

  • Daddy - The boot in the face, the brute / Brute heart of a brute like you. (x)
  • all of ‘In the Desert’
  • there’s a whole heap of hades/persephone and other poems I love in my tag over on the sideblog

anonymous asked:

Eres tan gordita por que devoras hombres como aire?

Shi jajajajaja, ya habíamos quedado en eso we :(

> «Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air» es un fragmento del poema Lady Lazarus de Sylvia Plath.

La traducción es mía, tomé una decisión de estilo al sustituir la palabra “como” por “devoro”, pues al ser la primera fácilmente asociada con el sobrepeso, se pierde el sentido emocional de la oración.

Pienso que “devoro” tiene una carga más fuerte y más estética.

Lean el poema, es bellísimo.

Otra cosa. En gramática, cuando pretendes explicar algo, se debe decir “porque” en lugar de “por que”. Saludos.

anonymous asked:

Does red hair feel weirdly poetic to you? Like, more than any other hair color? Bc it does to me and I can't place why exactly

I wouldn’t say more than any other color, but red hair gives me such a unique feeling. Red hair is astounding, in all its shades. It feels powerful. Looks powerful. Like it could maybe swallow me.

“Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
and I eat men like air”
–Sylvia Plath