Lady LazarusBY SYLVIA PLATHI 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 footA 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 breathWill vanish in a day.Soon, soon the fleshThe grave cave ate will be   At home on meAnd I a smiling woman.   I am only thirty.And like the cat I have nine times to die.This is Number Three.   What a trashTo annihilate each decade.What a million filaments.   The peanut-crunching crowd   Shoves in to seeThem unwrap me hand and foot——The big strip tease.   Gentlemen, ladiesThese 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 meantTo last it out and not come back at all.   I rocked shutAs a seashell.They had to call and callAnd pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.DyingIs 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 theatricalComeback in broad dayTo the same place, the same face, the same brute   Amused shout:‘A miracle!’That knocks me out.   There is a chargeFor 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 bloodOr 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 babyThat 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   BewareBeware.Out of the ashI rise with my red hair   And I eat men like air.

DaddyBY SYLVIA PLATHYou do not do, you do not do   Any more, black shoeIn which I have lived like a foot   For thirty years, poor and white,   Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.Daddy, I have had to kill you.   You died before I had time——Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,   Ghastly statue with one gray toe   Big as a Frisco sealAnd a head in the freakish Atlantic   Where it pours bean green over blue   In the waters off beautiful Nauset.   I used to pray to recover you.Ach, du.In the German tongue, in the Polish town   Scraped flat by the rollerOf wars, wars, wars.But the name of the town is common.   My Polack friendSays there are a dozen or two.   So I never could tell where you   Put your foot, your root,I never could talk to you.The tongue stuck in my jaw.It stuck in a barb wire snare.   Ich, ich, ich, ich,I could hardly speak.I thought every German was you.   And the language obsceneAn engine, an engineChuffing me off like a Jew.A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.   I began to talk like a Jew.I think I may well be a Jew.The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna   Are not very pure or true.With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck   And my Taroc pack and my Taroc packI may be a bit of a Jew.I have always been scared of you,With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.   And your neat mustacheAnd your Aryan eye, bright blue.Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——Not God but a swastikaSo black no sky could squeak through.   Every woman adores a Fascist,   The boot in the face, the brute   Brute heart of a brute like you.You stand at the blackboard, daddy,   In the picture I have of you,A cleft in your chin instead of your foot   But no less a devil for that, no not   Any less the black man whoBit my pretty red heart in two.I was ten when they buried you.   At twenty I tried to dieAnd get back, back, back to you.I thought even the bones would do.But they pulled me out of the sack,   And they stuck me together with glue.   And then I knew what to do.I made a model of you,A man in black with a Meinkampf lookAnd a love of the rack and the screw.   And I said I do, I do.So daddy, I’m finally through.The black telephone’s off at the root,   The voices just can’t worm through.If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——The vampire who said he was you   And drank my blood for a year,Seven years, if you want to know.Daddy, you can lie back now.There’s a stake in your fat black heart   And the villagers never liked you.They are dancing and stamping on you.   They always knew it was you.Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

You go by your day, rushing through the busy streetsand pay no mind to those who stop halfwayunravel in dark corners and let themselves breathbut if you looked in those corners,You'd find her right there,Disguised by the darknessand the curls in her hairHer nose in a book,With her head in the clouds,hiding her feelings,away from the menacing crowdIf you sat by her side,While the world went awry,She'd tell you the story, behind the pain in her eyes.If you peered through her ribcage, you'd see an empty space,from those she gave her heart towho didn't put it back in its placethe brain within her skull is so flooded it could drown In names of people who said they loved her,but didn't stick around.If you gave her five minutes of your time, You'd see how her smile,makes the worst things in existenceseem worthwhileBut you don't look in those corners,You don't even spare her a glanceSo she sits and waits in those corners, waiting to be given a chance

Which of these examples, taken from novels, uses the technique of personification?I felt physically weak and broken down: but my worse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which kept drawing from me silent tears.The heart of flame leapt nimbly across the gap between the trees and then went swinging and flaring along the whole row of them.He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like running.

It seemed that out of battle I escapedDown some profound dull tunnel, long since scoopedThrough granites which titanic wars had groined.Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and staredWith piteous recognition in fixed eyes,Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,— By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.” “None,” said that other, “save the undone years,The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,Was my life also; I went hunting wildAfter the wildest beauty in the world,Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,But mocks the steady running of the hour,And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.For by my glee might many men have laughed,And of my weeping something had been left,Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,The pity of war, the pity war distilled.Now men will go content with what we spoiled.Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress. None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.Courage was mine, and I had mystery;Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating worldInto vain citadels that are not walled.Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels, I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.I would have poured my spirit without stintBut not through wounds; not on the cess of war.Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.“I am the enemy you killed, my friend.I knew you in this dark: for so you frownedYesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.Let us sleep now. . . .”

Reflecting on my work "The Cure," I see a journey that both challenged and expanded my boundaries as a writer. Crafting a narrative that spans both ancient and modern times while maintaining a coherent and compelling story was no easy feat. It pushed me to explore new depths of creativity, weaving together historical context with a gripping tale of survival and discovery. This piece reflects my contemporary voice, blending the raw, emotional struggles of my characters with vivid, descriptive language that aims to immerse the reader in their world.The success of my work lies in its vivid imagery and the emotional weight it carries. Descriptions such as "the blazing hot sun of the Sahara" and "sweat from my forehead seeped into the lesions on my face" aim to evoke a visceral response from the reader. By incorporating these intense visual and sensory details, I sought to draw readers into the protagonist's harrowing journey. Moreover, the metaphor "in sands of knowledge, a new jewel gleams" serves to connect the ancient and modern narratives, illustrating the timeless quest for knowledge and healing. This metaphor not only ties the story together but also underscores the overarching theme of discovery and perseverance.However, there were aspects of my work that were less successful. The dual timelines, while intended to provide a rich, layered narrative, may have created confusion for some readers. The transitions between the present and ancient Egypt could have been smoother, with clearer indicators of the time shift. Additionally, some descriptions, particularly in the climax of the story where the protagonist nearly drowns in the mysterious liquid, might have been overly elaborate, potentially detracting from the urgency and tension of the moment. Streamlining these sections could enhance the narrative's pace and maintain the reader's engagement.After completing this task, I realized how challenging the theme was and how the context pushed me beyond my comfort zone. The theme of a cure intertwined with historical mystery required a careful balance of factual accuracy and creative storytelling. The language forms from my prescribed text "Home" by Catherine Cole inspired me to explore rich, descriptive prose and deep emotional connections between characters and their environments. I successfully used the metaphor "a mirage that sensed my tongue was drier than the desert" to convey the protagonist's desperation and hallucination, leading to a deeper understanding of his mental and physical state.Overall, this task allowed me to grow as a writer. The complexity of the narrative and the emotional depth required me to push my creative boundaries, resulting in a more compelling and immersive story. While there were challenges, the process of reflecting on my work has been invaluable. It has taught me the importance of clarity in storytelling and the power of vivid, sensory language. This assessment, although difficult, ultimately helped me become a more empowering and confident writer, capable of tackling complex themes and diverse narrative structures.