Today is Sylvia Plath‘s death anniversary. Somehow, it seems more appropriate to remember her on this day than on the day of her birth. today was the day when she decided to take life and matters into her own hands and leave this world of her own free will. I love her poetry. I think it is deep, and beautiful, and touching. It is also, in my opinion, slightly gendered. In the sense that, I think women would relate and feel more from it than men. But that’s just me, I’m sure many men understand her just as well. I like how she used to write of things that constrained her, and constrained her demons too. Imagine leading a life with such talent and such a lot of pressure for it. Giving up her entire life in a country and moving to foreign shores, composing new poems, making new friends… what a life led! What a life…
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.
I re-read The Bell Jar again, the story of the deep downward spiral into depression and nervous breakdown. It is such a dark book. And in the light of darker female protagonists dominnating the Hollywood movie scenes of late, Sylvia’s words put even more spice into the mix. I have always recommended her writing – for the sense of universal tragedy evoked as an extension of personal pain. Read ‘Colossus’… see how the loss of her father figure is extended into the falling of a giant statue… beautiful!
A blue sky out of the Oresteia
Arches above us. O father, all by yourself
You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered
In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.
It would take more than a lightning-stroke
To create such a ruin.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,
Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing.