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Nick And The Candlestick
(October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963 / Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts)

Nick And The Candlestick

Poem By Sylvia Plath

I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb

Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish—
Christ! They are panes of ice,

A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking

Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.

Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs—

The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.

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Comments (1)

I have not researched the date she wrote this poem, but I feel she knows she is expecting one of her two children when she wrote this one, and she is happy about being pregnant. I like this poem, because most of her poetry is so dark and sad, but I can see she had hopes for the baby she carries here, and love for her baby here. She is thinking of her child and not herself at this point in her life.


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