It exhausts her to watch poppies flickering, yet she masochistically continues to carefully observe them. It is simply in its element. These inner conflicts are revealed in her poetry. The paradox is that 'the play's the thing': though prima donna pouts and critic stings, there burns throughout the line of words, the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion: an insight like the flight of birds: Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing the secret of their ecstasy's in going; some day, moving, one will drop, and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals only to reopen as flesh congeals: cycling phoenix never stops. If there is, she is old, Her wings torn shawls, her long body Rubbed of its plush ---- Poor and bare and unqueenly and even shameful. She could be melancholic and elated in the same poem.
Imagery, therefore, captures various states of emotional distress. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. But a dozen would be worth having, A hundred, on that hill-green and red, Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing! Plath attached great importance to colours, often identifying them with specific attributes. I am silver and exact. The top quite gone Except for a sort of hinge Of skin, A flap like a hat, Dead white.
But I would rather be horizontal. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. Born in 1932 to middle class parents in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts, Sylvia Plath published her first poem at the age of eight. The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Plathhas good reason to use water imagery in these final lines, since itprovides the same reflective qualities as the mirror, but alsosuggests depth, coldness, the unknown, and the threat of death bydrowning.
Sturdy as potatoes, Stones, without conscience, word and line endure, Given an inch. She wrote poems that drew on her own experience of life and explored a range of emotions from love and joy to terror and despair. The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Miles long Extend the radial sheaves Of your spread hair, in which wrinkling skeins Knotted, caught, survives The old myth of orgins Unimaginable. Her last poems are generally seen as her outstanding achievement. People who have never read a Sylvia Plath poem know that she killed herself at thirty one and therefore, her death has come to overshadow and dominate the life. It is simply in its element.
Overhead, the clouds sit tasseled and fancy As Victorian cushions. Is this love then, this red material Issuing from the steele needle that flies so blindingly? Whatever I see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. The tone reveals her inner state and quite a lot about her personality. A must read — if you can find the time! Daybreak discovered the bureau lid Littered with Chinese hands. Such blue currents in the veins of my loved one! The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
Our kind multiplies: We shall by morning Inherit the earth. She almost created a language for herself and this, combined with her startling images, make her poems truly unique. When she first began writing poetry at a young age in childhood, Sylvia said in an interview that she was very inspired by nature. The child's cry Melts in the wall. One match scratch makes you real. I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus With tigery stripes, and a face on it Round as the moon, to stare up.
How did we make it up to your attic? O slow Horse the colour of rust, Hooves, dolorous bells ---- All morning the Morning has been blackening, A flower left out. See, how the tree boles flatten And lose their good browns If the thin people simply stand in the forest, Making the world go thin as a wasp's nest And grayer; not even moving their bones. No requests for explanation or general short comments allowed. Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. They persist in the sunlit room: the wallpaper Frieze of cabbage-roses and cornflowers pales Under their thin-lipped smiles, Their withering kingship. Stanza two of that poem should reward you with some thoughtful insights! Tonight the caustic wind, love, Gossips late and soon, And I wear the wry-faced pucker of The sour lemon moon. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. It will make little dresses and coats, It will cover a dynasty. Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.