Good night muse
Through open mouth comes
Silent nothing you left behind
Forced syllables bubbling to the surface
Pointless use of precious tick-tocks
And dictionary was left under the rain
Soggy pages melted into a feeling state
Comatose of pretence
Your luggage full of stories and unbeknown to you morals
Secretly precious artefacts
Desposed regrets and cynical apologies
Said as a joke to stretch the time away from
Boredom
I'll keep them under pillow where they belong
Filling my dreams with dread of pointless ending
Keeping me from fading into that good night
(I love you Thomas, you old devil hope you're drunk and loved)

Good night muse
I hope you wake one day with
Sense of purpose
Desire that you're know is real
Shiver of urgency running
Down your nerves
Need desire passion
To uncover the world
At the bottom of your fall
Into the mystery of another

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Crawling climbing with the last bit of power
In those worn out sacred muscles
Spirit was grasping for transformation
The sun behind the horizon seemed stuck
The earth stopped spinning
Or limbo moment held on pause
Skipping like broken record
Day after day after day
Over and over, the slap for the rawness of truth
Too much for any shell to handle
The spirit exhausted looking for a glimmer of sunrise
Wouldn't come if the life of real
Was put into the sealed box of convention
The spirit fought as it felt it was loosing
It withstood as it saw itself spread
Into a puddle of blood, sweat and tears
It fought for truth once seen never to be unfelt
Like kindness born in absolute acceptance
Of painful humanity
In holding the spirit of another
Naked and trembling
Warming another with heat of each breath
Feeling with every though
Nurturing with honest hope
How few were brave enough to dive
Into this terrifying ocean
Cold hot edgy and flawless
All at once so confusing
And yet the only one that could ever be real
Spirit knew to let go of a hand
Not brave enough to be held
There was sunrise behind this great mountain
And hope in the air even when the darkness
Covered the sight with a blindfold of annihilation
There were many hands and many lives
And goodbyes were never easy
For each grasp once felt
Was forever to be missed
Yet the journey was to continue
Through pain and loss and
Memory of sunrise once imprinted
Forever to be sought

You do not do, you do not do  
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot  
For thirty years, poor and white,  
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to **** you.  
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,  
Ghastly statue with one gray toe  
Big as a Frisco seal

And 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 roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.  
My ****** friend

Says 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 obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing 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 pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.  
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a *******
So 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 who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.  
At twenty I tried to die
And 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 look

And a love of the rack and the *****.  
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 *******, I’m through.

Sylvia Plath, “Daddy” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1960, 1965, 1971, 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath. Editorial matter copyright © 1981 by Ted Hughes. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
Source: Collected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1992)

A young body, light
As winter sunshine, a new
Seed's bursting promise,
Hung from a string of silence
Above its future.
(The chance of choice was never known.)
Hunger, new hands, strange voices,
It's cry came natural, tearing.

Water boiled in innocence, gaily
In a cheap ***.
The child exchanged it's
Curiosity for terror. The skin
Withdrew, the flesh submitted.

Now, cries make shards
Of broken air, beyond an unremembered
Hunger and the peace of strange hands.

A young body floats.
Silently.

On a bright day, next week
Just before the bomb falls
Just before the world ends
Just before I die

All my tears will powder
Black in dust like ashes
Black like Buddha's belly
Black and hot and dry

Then will mercy tumble
Falling down in god heads
Falling on the children
Falling from the sky