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.

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.

Thank you for the 73 years of having you in our lives. Today God called you and on this day as we send you to final rest, we pray that he will cast his loving care. May you find peace and eternal embrace. Until we meet again when Jesus comes. You will always be loved forever, Mama

She’s still _______ for her father! Don’t talk about him in front of her.A.sorrowingB.anguishingC.desiringD.grieving

How is the father’s helplessness brought out in the poem?

Choose the poem that uses alliteration.When you destroy a blade of grassYou poison England at her roots:Remember no man's foot can passWhere evermore no green life shoots.The human heart has hidden treasures,In secret kept, in silence sealed;The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,Whose charms were broken if revealed.