However, nothing is just what it seems to be.My objects dream and wear new costumes,compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my handsand the sea that bangs in my throat.- Anne Sexton (The Room of My Life)
I cannot promise very much.
I give you the images I know.
Lie still with me and watch.
We laugh and we touch.
I promise you love.Time will not take that away.- Anne Sexton
Anne Sexton (Born: November 9 1928, Newton, MA – Died: October 4 1974, Weston, MA)
Two poems by Anne Sexton first:
The Truth the Dead Know
by Anne Sexton
For my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959
and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959
Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in the stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
Wanting to Die
by Anne Sexton
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.
To thrust all that life under your tongue!--
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say,
and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.
by Anne Sexton
for Sylvia Plath
O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons,
with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,
with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,
where did you go
after you wrote me
about raising potatoes
and keeping bees?)
what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny breasts,
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,
how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy
to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib,
and since that time he waited
under our heart, our cupboard,
and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides
and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,
And now, Sylvia,
with death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,
what is your death
but an old belonging,
a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?
while the moon's bad,
and the king's gone,
and the queen's at her wit's end
the bar fly ought to sing!)
O tiny mother,
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!
Second part of the video is here.
Next up, are a couple poems by Sylvia Plath. I have read some of Anne Sexton's poetry but have not really read much of Plath. The tragedy of Sylvia Plath is not just her tormented life and early death by suicide but that even people like me who are interested in poetry know more about her because of the tragedy of her life rather than her poems. (A good index of her poetry can be found at this site via Stanford University.) Much has been written about her life, her marriage to Ted Hughes, and the tragic end to her life but I'll leave you to go find books and articles about it elsewhere and lead you directly to two of her poems here --- no not her two most famous poems - 'Daddy' and 'Ariel'.
DyingIs 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’ve a call.- Sylvia Plath (Lady Lazarus)
by Sylvia Plaththe slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hollow of my skull
and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation
I would not remember you
or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these
and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops
a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight
by Sylvia Plath
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietlyAs the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nursesAnd my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuffLike an eye between two white lids that will not shut.Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as waterTends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage——My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boatstubbornly hanging on to my name and address.They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolleyI watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my booksSink out of sight, and the water went over my head.I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn’t want any flowers, I only wantedTo lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.How free it is, you have no idea how free——The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine themShutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.Even through the gift paper I could hear them breatheLightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.The tulips turn to me, and the window behind meWhere once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadowBetween the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a riverSnags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.They concentrate my attention, that was happyPlaying and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closesIts bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,And comes from a country far away as health.