The Stones Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: ABB CDD EBB FGH IJK LLL MNN OPP QRB LLL LLL PST LLL LLL LUU| This is the city where men are mended | A |
| I lie on a great anvil | B |
| The flat blue sky circle | B |
| - | |
| Flew off like the hat of a doll | C |
| When I fell out of the light I entered | D |
| The stomach of indifference the wordless cupboard | D |
| - | |
| The mother of pestles diminished me | E |
| I became a still pebble | B |
| The stones of the belly were peaceable | B |
| - | |
| The head stone quiet jostled by nothing | F |
| Only the mouth hole piped out | G |
| Importunate cricket | H |
| - | |
| In a quarry of silences | I |
| The people of the city heard it | J |
| They hunted the stones taciturn and separate | K |
| - | |
| The mouth hole crying their locations | L |
| Drunk as a foetus | L |
| I suck at the paps of darkness | L |
| - | |
| The food tubes embrace me Sponges kiss my lichens away | M |
| The jewelmaster drives his chisel to pry | N |
| Open one stone eye | N |
| - | |
| This is the after hell I see the light | O |
| A wind unstoppers the chamber | P |
| Of the ear old worrier | P |
| - | |
| Water mollifies the flint lip | Q |
| And daylight lays its sameness on the wall | R |
| The grafters are cheerful | B |
| - | |
| Heating the pincers hoisting the delicate hammers | L |
| A current agitates the wires | L |
| Volt upon volt Catgut stitches my fissures | L |
| - | |
| A workman walks by carrying a pink torso | L |
| The storerooms are full of hearts | L |
| This is the city of spare parts | L |
| - | |
| My swaddled legs and arms smell sweet as rubber | P |
| Here they can doctor heads or any limb | S |
| On Fridays the little children come | T |
| - | |
| To trade their hooks for hands | L |
| Dead men leave eyes for others | L |
| Love is the uniform of my bald nurse | L |
| - | |
| Love is the bone and sinew of my curse | L |
| The vase reconstructed houses | L |
| The elusive rose | L |
| - | |
| Ten fingers shape a bowl for shadows | L |
| My mendings itch There is nothing to do | U |
| I shall be good as new | U |
Sylvia Plath
(1)
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