Edited by Michelle Payne, Friday, 7 Jan 2011, 20:54
I first read Sylvia Plath 16 years ago, when I was studying A’ level English Lit. I fell in love with her poetry straight away. The sharpness and clarity of her imagery; I had never read anything so visceral.
I bought and devoured The Bell Jar and several biographies discussing, mainly, her marriage to Ted Hughes. I read all her poetry over and over again. I remember my mum looking worried. Not that she was one for poetry, but even she knew Plath committed suicide in her early 30s. Just like Heather, who Mum was forever telling me I was so like. But she needn't have worried. I didn't want to learn how to die; more how to live. Plath was my shock therapy. Though, perhaps, I think now, I was at some subconscious level asking 'why'.
But I digress. I hadn't read Plath for years, until a few weeks ago. And I find this is one taste that hasn't changed at all. She is still incredibly bold, powerful, ghastly and beautiful. Pure. Transcendent.
'Lady Lazarus' (Dying/ Is an art, like everything else./ I do it exceptionally well.), the anger pulsating through 'Daddy' (Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through), the perfected stillness of 'The Moon and the Yew Tree' (This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary./ The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue). These are among my favourites. Also 'Fever 103', 'You're' and 'Poppies in July'. I would be a different woman without these poems.
shock therapy
I first read Sylvia Plath 16 years ago, when I was studying A’ level English Lit. I fell in love with her poetry straight away. The sharpness and clarity of her imagery; I had never read anything so visceral.
I bought and devoured The Bell Jar and several biographies discussing, mainly, her marriage to Ted Hughes. I read all her poetry over and over again. I remember my mum looking worried. Not that she was one for poetry, but even she knew Plath committed suicide in her early 30s. Just like Heather, who Mum was forever telling me I was so like. But she needn't have worried. I didn't want to learn how to die; more how to live. Plath was my shock therapy. Though, perhaps, I think now, I was at some subconscious level asking 'why'.
But I digress. I hadn't read Plath for years, until a few weeks ago. And I find this is one taste that hasn't changed at all. She is still incredibly bold, powerful, ghastly and beautiful. Pure. Transcendent.
'Lady Lazarus' (Dying/ Is an art, like everything else./ I do it exceptionally well.), the anger pulsating through 'Daddy' (Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through), the perfected stillness of 'The Moon and the Yew Tree' (This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary./ The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue). These are among my favourites. Also 'Fever 103', 'You're' and 'Poppies in July'. I would be a different woman without these poems.