Paperback Í Ariel PDF Ò


Ariel Sylvia Plath's celebrated collectionWhen Sylvia Plath died she not only left behind a prolific life but also her unpublished literary masterpiece Ariel Her husband Ted Hughes brought the collection to life in 1966 and its publication garnered worldwide acclaim This collection showcases the beloved poet’s brilliant provoking and always moving poems including Ariel and once again shows why readers have fallen in love with her work throughout the generations I'm wanting to get into poetry but I have to classify books of poetry in two categories poems I understood and poems I didn't The majority of these poems went over my head I saw in a previous review that Plath writes very personally which I suppose is what went wrong here There were so many abstract references and just being plain honest 80% of these poems I just had no clue what she was trying to communicate other than the fact that she wanted to die Although I didn't grasp most of the poems in this collection I did really enjoy a few Sheep in the Fog Lady Lazarus Tulips and The Rival I was a much bigger fan of The Bell Jar than I am her poetry Inspired by Paul Legault's brilliant idea of translating Emily Dickinson's poems into English I thought immediately I have to steal that idea So here are some of the Ariel poems of Sylvia Plath translated into English I have of course tried my utmost to perform this task with tact discretion and good tasteARIEL TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISHELMLook let's get this straight I am a tree you are a woman We can never be together not in the way you'd like anyway Plus you're kind of irritatingTHE RABBIT CATCHERI went out with this guy once and then I found out he liked to catch rabbits So he was toast I should have dimed the bastardBERCK PLAGEI went on holiday Every single person in the whole hotel was talking about me behind my back I don't like bikinis Don't even get me started on nude beachesTHE OTHERI have something dead in my handbag Tee hee Also I scratched myself and made myself bleed I don't really recommend marriageA BIRTHDAY PRESENTI got a present But I was thinking that if I unwrapped it it would bite my face off So I didn't HahTHE BEE MEETINGI thought I'd like to join in village life and get involved with local societies and all that So I went to the bee keepers' meeting It was like something out of Alfred Hitchcock I liked itSTINGSNow I'm a real bee keeper I get blase about stings It's like a metaphorTHE SWARMBees are kind of like Nazis Or the French I can't decideWINTERINGCountry life can suck I wish I was a bee No I don't really That would be silly I think it would be silly Maybe it wouldn't be sillyA SECRETMen are like big babies that drink beer and want you to wear high class lingerie Okay that's not much of a secretTHE APPLICANTI got this job as a temp So I was filing and I knew I could destroy them if I chose just like that but I didn't choose to that dayDADDYWhen I was little and my dad used to dress up in his SS uniform I used to think he looked so smart and handsome Of course later the penny droppedLESBOSYou really shouldn't have taken the kittens and given them to the neighbours without a by your leave I think I am going to pour sulphuric acid on your head while you are sleeping I'll do it tonight YesFEVER 103I got one of those 48 hour bugs That's why he's still alive If I had any strength in my limbs I would have sulphuric acided his head last nightCUTI nearly cut my fucking thumb off when I was making a casserole for a man I jumped about swearing I could have cut off something useful like his member but no it had to be my thumbPOPPIES IN OCTOBERHave you noticed that everything is slowly dying of carbon monoxide poisoningLADY LAZARUSI like to commit suicide like some people like to visit their grandparents You really don't want to it's kind of a drag and there's nothing to do there but you just feel you have to because you're a good personLETTER IN NOVEMBERDear Ted Fuck you SylviaDEATH COCheer up things could be worse I could be dead Oh no wait a minute this is worse that would be better HmmSHEEP IN FOGWell you know sheep aren't that bright to begin with So when you mix 'em up with a thick fog the results are hilarious Ariel Sylvia Plath Ariel was the second book of Sylvia Plath's poetry to be published It was originally published in 1965 two years after her death by suicide The poems in the 1965 edition of Ariel with their free flowing images and characteristically menacing psychic landscapes marked a dramatic turn from Plath's earlier Colossus poemsContents 1965 versionMorning SongThe CouriersSheep in FogThe ApplicantLady LazarusTulipsCutElmThe Night DancesPoppies in OctoberBerck PlageArielDeath CoLesbos Nick and the CandlestickGulliverGetting ThereMedusaThe Moon and the Yew TreeA Birthday PresentMary's Song Letter in NovemberThe RivalDaddyYou'reFever 103°The Bee MeetingThe Arrival of the Bee BoxStingsThe SwarmWinteringThe Hanging ManLittle FugueYearsThe Munich ManneuinsTotemParalyticBalloonsPoppies in JulyKindnessContusionEdgeWordsتاریخ نخستیم خوانش در ماه جولای سال 2000 میلادیعنوان آریل؛ شاعر سیلویا پلات؛ مترجم کاوه بهزادیسیلویا پلات، شاعریست که نیاز به معرفی ندارد همانطور که میدانید به سال 1932 میلادی، در ایالت «ماساچوست ِ آمریکا» به دنیا آمدند، و در سال 1963 میلادی، در جوانی و اوج، دستان از این جهان شستند از ایشان، کتابهای ِ «آریل»؛ «کتاب ِ بستر»؛ «کلوسوس» «چند شعر ِ دیگر»؛ «درختان ِ زمستانی»؛ «گذر از آب» و؛ و نیز یک رمان با عنوان «حباب ِ شیشه» بر جای مانده استیک هدیه برای تولدچه چیز است در پس ِ این حجاب؟آیا زشت است؟ آیا زیباست؟سوسو میزندروشن و خاموش میشودآیا سینه دارد؟ آیا کنار دارد؟یقین دارم که بی همتاستیقین دارم همان چیزیست که میخواهموقتی که خاموشم در پخت و پزاحساس میکنم نگاه میکنداحساس میکنم فکر میکندآیا همان چیزیست که مرا بیش از اندازه آماده کرده؟آیا همان برگزیده است با چشم حفره های سیاهکه جای زخم بر آن مانده؟اندازه میگیرد انبوه ِ آرد را و تکه میکند اضافه اش رادر حال ِ چسبیدن به دستوراتدستوراتدستوراتآیا همان است که مسیح را در مریم بشارت داد؟خدای ِ من، چه مسخره؛اما سوسو میزندروشن و خاموش میشودصبر نمیکندو فکر میکنم که مرا میخواهدچه فرق میکند؟استخوان باشد یا دکمه ای از مروارید؛به هر حال من امسال چیز زیادی از یک هدیه نمیخواهمچرا که فکر میکنم به تصادفی زنده امچرا که شادمان، خودم را به هر طریق ِ ممکن کشته بودمحالا این حجابها هستند که مانند ِ پرده سوسو میزنندروشناییهای اطلسی ِ یک پنجره ی زمستانیسپید، مثل تختخواب ِ کودکانو برق از نفّس ِ مرده به رنگ دندان ِ فیلباید یک دندان ِ تیز آنجا باشدستونی از اشباح؛نمیتوانید ببینید؟ برایم مهم نیست که چیستآیا تو میتوانی آنرا به من ندهی؟؛خجل نباش، مهم نیست اگر کوچک باشدبخیل نباش، من برای ِ عظمت آماده امبگذارید بنشینیم؛هر یک در سمتی از آندر شگفت از نورانی بودنش، در شگفت از آینه وار بودنشبگذارید آخرین شاممان را بر آن بخوریمآنچنان که بر یک بشقاب در بیمارستانمیدانم که چرا به من نمیدهیش؟تو وحشت کرده ایحالا که جهان از جیغی بالا میرود به همراه سرت بی آنکه پروایی داشته باشیبه شکل ِ یک سپر ِ باستانیاعجازی برای ِ نوادگان ِ شمااما نترسید، این چنین نیستمن تنها میگیرمش و به کناری میگریزمو تو نه صدای ِ باز کردنشنه صدای ِ گسستن ِ زبانشو نه صدای ِ جیغی در انتها خواهی شنیدفکر نمیکنم امتیازی به این احتیاطم بدهیآه اگر میدانستی چگونه این حجابها روزهای مرا میکشنددر نگاه ِ تو آنها خود وضوح و شفافیتند، به شکل ِ هوایی تمیزاما خدای من ابرها این روزها به سان ِ پنبه شده اندارتشی از آنهاارتشی از مونوکسید ِ کربنبه شیرینی، مانند ِ شکر به درون نفس میکشمو رگهایم را از میلیونها پنهانی پر میکنمغبارهای ِ غریبی که بر سالهای ِ عمرم خط میکشندتو لباسهای نقره ایَت را برای این مناسبت بپوشآیا برایتان غیرممکن است چیزی را رها کنید برود؟آیا باید به هر چیزی مُهری ارغوانی بزنید؟آیا باید هر چه را که توانید بکُشید؟آه، من امروز چیزی میخواهم و تو تنها کسی هستی که میتوانی آنرا به من دهیچیزی که پس پنجره ام ایستاده است، به عظمت ِ آسمانچیزی که میان ِ اوراقم نَفَس میکشدآن مرکز ِ مرده را میگویمآنجا که زندگیهای ِ شکاف خورده سرد و سخت به تاریخ گره میخورندنگذار با نامه بیاید، از انگشتی به انگشت ِ دیگرنگذار با کلمه ای از دهان برسدآه، من باید شصت ساله باشمتا زمانی که این همه تحویل داده شودتا خالی از هر احساسی شومتا از آن استفاده کنمتنها بگذار از این نقاب پایین بیایماز این حجاب، حجاب، حجاباگر این مرگ میبودمن سنگینی ِ عمیقش را و چشمان ِ بی انتهایش را تحسین میکردمآنوقت میدانستم تو جدی بودیسپس میتوانست اصالتیسپس میتوانست تولدی در کار باشدو چاقو، نه برای ِ تکه کردن، که برای ِ درون شدن میبودژاو و پاکیزه، به شکل ِ گریه ی یک کودکو جهان از کنار ِ من سرازیر میشد؛آینهنقره ام، دقیقم، بی هیچ نقش پیشینهرچه میبینم بی درنگ میبلعمهمانگونه که هست، نیالوده به عشق یا نفرتبی رحم نیستم، فقط راستگو هستمچشمان خدایی کوچک، چهار گوشهاغلب به دیوار رو به رو میاندیشمصورتی ست و لکه دارآنقدر به آن نگاه کرده ام که فکر میکنمپاره ی دل من استولی پیدا و ناپیدا میشودصورتها و تاریکی بارها ما را از هم جدا میکنند حالا دریاچه امزنی روبرویم خم شده استبرای شناختن خود سرا پای مرا میکاودآنگاه به شمعها یا ماه، این دروغگویان، باز میگرددپشت او را میبینم و همانگونه که هست منعکس میکنمزن با اشک و تکان دادن دست پاداشم میدهدبرای او اهمیت دارم، میآید و میروداین صورت اوست که هر صبح جانشین تاریکی میشوددر من دختری را غرق کرده استو در من زنی سالخورده هر روز به جستجوی اومثل ماهی هولناکی برمیخیزد در مقدمه ی «آریل» اثر «سیلویا پلات»، که دو سال پیش از خودکشی شاعر، در لندن چاپ شد، «رابرت لاول» شاعر معاصر «آمریکا» نگاشته ائد «در این اشعار پلات با خودش یکی میشود، خویشتنی که با طراوت، ظرافت و شقاوت آفریده شد؛ یکی از آن قهرمان اَبَرواقعی و سحرآمیزِ بزرگ کلاسیک لاول راست میگوید که پلات در شعرهای آخرش با خود یکی میشود؛ بخصوص در اشعار دفاتر «گذر از آب» و «آریل» که خودی یکدست، اما مشترک را به وجود میآورد در این مجموعه به ویژه در دفتر اخیر، تجربه های روزمره را با اکسیر اسطوره به احساس و اشتراک عام مبدل میکند»؛ ا شربیانی When I was a kid I loved stories about intrepid explorers who visited places no one had ever seen before and died heroically in the attempt I guess Scott of the Antarctic is the canonical example though later on I discovered to my surprise that Norwegians just think he was an idiot who didn't prepare carefully and that Amundsen was the real hero There is a wonderful episode in Jan Kjærstad's Erobreren which contrasts the English and Norwegian views of these two great menSo what's this got to do with Ariel I was trying to figure out why I like it so much it's been one of my absolute favorite pieces of poetry since I first came across it as a teenager and it struck me that maybe I admired it for similar reasons Sylvia Plath went on an expedition to a sort of emotional Antarctica a place most people have heard of but never visited where you experience love so intensely that it ends up killing you Before that happened however she managed to send back detailed reports of what she'd found there Perhaps another reason why I associate her and the brave Captain Scott is that she died during the English winter of 1963 I was five at the time and some of my first memories are of the bitter cold and of how incredibly deep the snow was I remember that we were snowed in and that my father shovelled a path to the house next door so that we could at least visit them The snow was much higher than his head A few hundred miles away Sylvia had left her husband and was living in London with her two children She killed herself on February 11Here are some of the passages from Ariel that I think of most often I have always assumed that the title poem is about having sex with Ted Hughes though I found out recently that it's also about her horse It ends like thisWhiteGodiva I unpeel Dead hands dead stringenciesAnd now IFoam to wheat a glitter of seasThe child's cryMelts in the wallAnd IAm the arrowThe dew that fliesSuicidal at one with the driveInto the redEye the cauldron of morningThe beginning of Elm is another of my favourite passages which expresses better than anything else I can think of just how painful love can be I remember once showing it to a friend who's had a rather difficult life we'd been having some discussion about poetry She seemed almost physically affected; I remember she turned pale and couldn't finish reading it I wished I'd had senseI know the bottom she says I know it with my great tap rootIt is what you fearI do not fear it I have been thereIs it the sea you hear in meIts dissatisfactionsOr the voice of nothing that was your madnessLove is a shadowHow you lie and cry after itListen these are its hooves it has gone off like a horseAll night I shall gallop thus impetuouslyTill your head is a stone your pillow a little turfEchoing echoingAnd I love the end of Nick and the Candlestick which she apparently wrote to her son two years old at the timeO embryoRemembering even in sleepYour crossed positionThe blood blooms cleanIn you rubyThe painYou wake to is not yoursLove loveI have hung our cave with rosesWith soft rugs The last of VictorianaLet the starsPlummet to their dark addressLet the mercuricAtoms that cripple dripInto the terrible wellYou are the oneSolid the spaces lean on enviousYou are the baby in the barnI was so shocked when I read earlier this year that he had also killed himself But when someone's written a poem like this about you you're as immortal as the unnamed subject of Shakespeare's Sonnet XVIIIBy the way most people have been very dismissive of the movie with Gwynneth Paltrow and Daniel Craig I seem to be one of the rare exceptions; the script was nothing special but I thought Paltrow had done a fine job of capturing her personality on screen

  • Paperback
  • 105 pages
  • Ariel
  • Sylvia Plath
  • English
  • 27 November 2015
  • 9780060931728

About the Author: Sylvia Plath

Anne Sexton Plath is credited with advancing the genre of confessional poetry initiated by


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