The Munich Mannequins – Sylvia Plath 1965
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb
Where the yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of life and the tree of life
Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood is the flood of love,
The absolute sacrifice.
It means: no more idols but me,
Me and you.
So, in their sulfur loveliness, in their smiles
These mannequins lean tonight
In Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome,
Naked and bald in their furs,
Orange lollies on silver sticks,
Intolerable, without mind.
The snow drops its pieces of darkness,
Nobody’s about. In the hotels
Hands will be opening doors and setting
Down shoes for a polish of carbon
Into which broad toes will go tomorrow.
O the domesticity of these windows,
The baby lace, the green-leaved confectionery,
The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stolz.
And the black phones on hooks
Glittering and digesting
Voicelessness. The snow has no voice.
Plath, Sylvia. “The Munich Mannequins by Sylvia Plath.” By Sylvia Plath – Famous Poems, Famous Poets. – All Poetry, 28 Jan. 1963, allpoetry.com/The-Munich-Mannequins.
When I first bought ‘Ariel’ by Sylvia Plath, I completely fell in love with confessional poetry. The reason I love this poem is that it portrays a perfect, dehumanized society of bald prettiness. It discusses today’s obsession with body image and thinness, to a point where teenage girls believe that more bones and less skin equal beauty. When it just equals mental disorder in a world that romanticizes mental illness.
Anorexia is not romantic, and while searching for a feature image for this poem, I stumbled across a tag that promotes anorexia on tumblr and it is so disgusting and over the edge triggering to see that.
If you want male objectification of women to stop, please like, share, comment and follow my blog for more. Please just love your body the way it is, because it is beautiful, every inch of it, no matter what others tell you.