“all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true storyteller who would keep that from you.” Ernest hemingway
Suffocated in plath’S poetry whirlpool, can’t bear straightening my spine any longer. the poet’s most notable collection, ”ariel” ,which was published after her death, was such kind of works more than clunching the reader’s heart. she had sent it spiraling into cardiac arrest. They can be interpreted as an elaborate death trap, a morbid suicide rap, cutting through many a solid slice of human tissue, ruthlessly and self-loathingly. Like the much-admired conclusion in “lady lazarus”
“ Dying, Is an art Like everything else I do it exceptionally well
I do it so it feels like hell I do it so it feels real I guess you could say I have a call.
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart— It really goes.
Ash, ash— You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—
A cake of soap A wedding ring, A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
Oscar wilde had commented that “ all bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.” I think right now he might as well reread the verses above and retreat his words. It was an outburst of tantrum ,mingled with hysterical insanity .(the imaginery of the jewish martyr in Nazi concentration camp. the persona was split ,and deranged. The split allows the poem to peel off the personal, to impersonate and generalize. Creating not one mirror but a hall of mirrors. is it too outspoken? exactly. It is a skill it is a show, there are invisible and chronic measures of torture everywhere outside the prison wall which distort people into unfeelingly frivolous, exaggeratingly hysterical self-interrogator. Back when America was careening from the Eisenhower era ---“the tranquillized fifities.” As Robert Lowell called them ---toward the age of aquarius. America poetry was undergoing a dramatic shift as well, a period of highly controlled, formal, and impersonal poetry, dominated by the likes of Richard Wilbur and Anthony hecht, gave way with surprising rapidity to one of unrestrained, exceedingly personal free verse, often about extreme emotional states. So revolutionary did these effusions seem at the time that the critic m.l.rosonthal found it necessary, he coined a new name for them:confessional poetry.
crowned with pioneer of the genre of confessional poetry. In all other ways, however, plath is the dead-on image of a prodigy. born in boston Massachusetts, publishing poems at 9.she studied at smith college. after a severe mental collapse she won full scholarship and went to newnham college at the university cambridge, before receiving acclaim as a poet and writer. she married fellow poet ted hughes in 1956.plath suffered from depression for much of her whole life. she had committed suicide 3 times in her life, and in 1963 she succeeded.
The speaker of “lady lazarus”, indeed, brags darkly about her prowess at such attempts( I do it so it feels real), marvels at her survival of her attempt at age twenty (and of a near-fatal “accident”a decade earlier) she compares herself to an extermination-camp inmate ,suggests that her victory over death makes her a sort of walking miracle.
All her sufferings can be traced back to the death of her nazi father at whom she expressed her resentment blended with irresistible obsession in her later works. such as “daddy”, which draws on the same preoccupation and takes the same tone.
“daddy I have had to kill you you died before I had time---
I have always been scared of you With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo And your neat moustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue Panzer-man, panzer-man, o you-
Every women adores a fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.”
So frequently praised and ubiquitously quoted are these two, preserve and passionate, poems that it almost seem at times as if plath’s entire reputation rests upon them.Even the plainest reader may recognize her tendency to raise her own experiences to something like tragic dignity, trying to turn earthly objects and settings into objective correlatives for her emotions, her poems are like a colossal but asymmetrical construction laid on one single pillar which may intimidate you at your first sight. Without a key to its metaphors these postmodernism episodes, those elliptical shorthand, those apparently confused and formless method, may well seem an esoteric work of art while which was, virtually, an astrolabe of precisely synthetic dissection. The decipherment is nothing but her own life experience and something inexplicable summoned by her soul-searching inquisition. Without such foreknowledge, those who plunge in hopefully may soon find himself floundering in troubled waters.mrs plath gave them no help, letting them sink or swim.
The readers might refers to her father as the cause of her suicide. Under the shadow of whom she has lived for thirty years and attempted suicide as a desire to get back to him. Michael Fordham ,in his book, the self and autism, offers an exhaustive and illuminating study of autism. He contended that autistic children are autistic because they came into the world and were confronted with mothers, in plath’s case it was the death of otto plath, who wished for their death.
“it is assumed that the essential core of autism represents in distorted form the primacy integrate of infancy, and that idiopathic autism is a disordered state of integration, owing its persistence to failure of the self to deintegrate.”
The deintegration of self is akin to what Freud calls the death drive and what Plato presented as the desire for Hades…it works through destruction, the dissolving, decomposing, detaching and disintegrating processes necessary both to alchemical psychologising and to modern psychoanalyzing. Plath is some kind of an autistic child whose individual identity are refusing to emerge from the unconscious water. The trope of the verses was her desire to hold fast to something ineffable and wriggles and transforms until it emerges as a stable image. And the unavoidable suicide was both a regressive longing for the uterus and a mystical longing for god. A well-planned full stop to her two-lane odyssey.
A hostage of her own genius. i can’t restrain myself from lamenting such a gorgeous and splendid young poet, no matter how much controversy her spineless way of fleeing from this world may arise , the works will abide---while the often narcissistic, melodramatic and more often enigmatic and vehement singer that these poems drew upon will fade away, lost in the hum and buzz of our infinitely turbulent media