Hoping for Prosperity
Golden Majesty of Life, Crowned treasure holder of all heavenly riches, cooperate at providing me with anything I want and need by always acting on my behalf! Catalyze in my abundance of fortunate wealth. Offer me the great riches reaped from the fields of eternal bliss. Unseal all mysteries and link me up with many genies in bottles to grant my wishes!
An Ox Looms My Pelouse:
My Poney Trod on my Toe
I Have Plugged Thym in and I Win.
Drop down a Notch My dear,
A Queen Writes of Bugs in Coffee Mugs.
The Code Doc eats Cod,
Smile For I Have Perfect Homeland Gigs.
Love Want Shaped Goals and Rods,
Not Monks, Whales and Crabs Feeding Guts.
Angel of Gifts, accord me prosperity, and I’ll gratefully praise your name with glorious spreading of the great work you do, of the great deeds you did.
You beloved spirit, you my other self who watches over our wild shadows, now dispel the obscurities of this confusing life, and let kingdoms of wisdom emerge from within our marvelous soul, so that flashy insights usher us towards evolution and liberation.
Let’s reap fruitful harvests so that I’ll endure this burdening life with breaks of joyful moments, without being buried against my Will by imposed outer rules or expectations of who I should be and what I shouldn’t do.
What else can I do but patiently wait until the ice melts at last! I’ve done and said it all, it’s your turn to keep your word. Now deliver…
Overwrite this cruel fate by creating luckier destinies, make many, make some dull and boring, make one ordinary, or even an ignorant routine where chaos can temporarily cease to burst.
But make something new before we both become dissatisfied too soon.
So call your rich ideas, on my behalf, unearth profit, order copious winnings to enchant me with showers of prosperity.
Ariel and other poems (1965) by Sylvia Plath
Book Review: Ariel by Sylvia Plath
Sylvia Plath’s “Ariel,” 50 Years Later
Published in 1965, Ariel was published after Sylvia Plath herself had already been dead for two years.
The Moon and the Yew Tree
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs at my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky –
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness –
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.