Fahad Hameed

Fahad Hashmi is one of the known Software Engineer and blogger likes to blog about design resources. He is passionate about collecting the awe-inspiring design tools, to help designers.He blogs only for Designers & Photographers.

46 thoughts on “Sylvia Plath Reads ‘Daddy’

  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    Sears still sells ovens. I'm almost sure they sell gas powered ones as well. Takes a lot of sand to do what she did. Looked existentialism in the eye and said, "I think not". The heavy absurdity of life.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    Sounds a lot older I love her naked wounds exposed she must of ended it shortly after this poem?

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    Daddy
    BY SYLVIA PLATH
    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 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 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 Polack 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 swastika
    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 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.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    Where on earth did Plath find this accent? Massachusetts doesn't explain it.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    I think Sylvia's was responding through her poetry the white male privilege responsible for oppressing women. Women were and still are perceived and accused of being crazy or mentally ill anytime they spoke or acted out against their oppressors. Her love affair with dying, may have been biological, but, she her poetry suggests a life long struggle with using her power.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    selfish, selfish, selfish….
    i don't give a damn about the people who depend on me.
    i'm just gonna take the COWARDLY way out and leave my children to sort out the emotional torment that i leave dangling around their shoulders.
    because i don't give a FUCK about anyone but myself.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    Breathtaking. Her words. her voice, her raw truth. They don't make them like this anymore.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    This message is for Alden Howes Olson. We would like to speak with you.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    One of the greatest poems I've ever come across. I read or listen to it at least once a week.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    Depression. So depressing. Her father's death caused her such depression. When he died, she lost ambition.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    Does anyone know where this was brodcasted? I am a musician and I would love to sample (pieces or the whole) this read poem in one of my tracks. I need to know with whom and where to clear it. :- )

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    just finished essay I had to write on Sexton and Plath

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    Was she not Irish and lived and fell asleep ("suicide") in the 1900s? I do not remember her bio, well. I remember a guy at University said to me, Have you ever noticed that all the romantic literature seems to be written by men? As if women have difficulty writing poems. And I was like, What about Sylvia Plath? But then I thought, Oh wait, she was married to a poet, so for all we know, he wrote and she took credit. .. If they faked the lunar landing .. Madonna, she co-wrote a lot of her songs, with guys with names such as Jellybean Benitz, and others, whom I never heard of before, or since. Recently, Madonna gave a speech about how many of her friends from her early days are dead…. which makes me think, Bitch, She's Madonna. If you mess with her, she will gut you like a fish.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    Umm, we at Hallmark thank you for your submission,
    but it is not quite what we are looking for, in
    Our Annual Father's Day poetry competition. It is too long,
    and the mood not a happy one.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    Bet Sylvia never imagined a world where people across the globe could listen to these recording at the same time all these decades later. How wonderful. They should release a compilation of her recordings on vinyl.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    this is bad poetry. this has no rhythm nor melody nor harmony or anything but a raw feeling and perhaps an insight

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    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 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 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 Polack 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 swastika
    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 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.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
    Permalink

    How could Plath have read this poem when she died before it was published? Also, many sources have her writting this poem shortly before committing suicide.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    omg….. u can just feel the pain she's going through, it's so heartbreaking

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    Here is a list of poets that I really like!!!!!!!!!!!   Thomas Shadwell, Colley Cibber, Nicholas Rowe, Thomas Warton, William McGonagall, Alfred Austin and Jacob Bronowski.

    Reply
  • August 29, 2017 at 6:07 am
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    Here is a list of poets I absolutely Fucking DETEST!!!!!!!   Wilfred Owen, Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, John Cooper Clarke, Dylan Thomas, Roger McGough and Benjamin Zephaniah.

    Reply

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