Of the 40 poems in this collection atleast 20 are very good, great ones are among the finest i have read when its comes to original imagery,craftmanship. Confessional poems focus on the experience of the individual. Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles Proceed from your great lips. This collection i impulse bought because of her reputation as a poet and didnt know it was her first published book of poems. Once that splinter's flown into her writing, nothing's quite the same again. Ten fingers shape a bowl for shadows. Half-satiric, Plath is frustrated at her attempts to understand the facts about the statue.
But no frown of mine Will betray the company I keep. How nature, sensing this, compounds her bitters. Yet these memories are scattered everywhere which is certainly not easy to recollect. I don't mean hard like palustral is hard, as in hard to understand because I'd never before made an acquaintanceship with the word. She does not expect any new development but seems to have stuck to her job without any reward.
Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. At times she leaves a crack to look through, displays her vulnerability, but so much of what she writes feels overly academic, overly composed, overly self-conscious. Her sense of humor is so unique and slow. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. One can switch verses around, retitle them any ol' way, print everything backwards, whatever. Perhaps aware of the loss of the roof above us, she marks the sky as her roof. By a feminist interpretation, the narrator undergoes a series of transformations through the poem in an effort to build a new identity.
A colossus can be a statue that represents a deceased person. Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of Lysol I crawl like an ant in mourning Over the weedy acres of your brow To mend the immense skull-plates and clear The bald, white tumuli of your eyes. There is a pause for consideration from this industrious, hopeless, endless work of recovery, as though the speaker could step back from it all, gaze detachedly on the ruins as she once had on the Forum. During this early phase of Plath's career, she still treated the act of writing poetry as a laborious and painstaking process, often diligently looking up words in the thesaurus and then inserting many synonyms of one word into a single composition. In 'The Colossus' it is the particularly female role of housekeeper that she assumes in relation to this colossal, fallen figure.
Excerpt:- Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of lysol I crawl like an ant in mourning Over the weedy acres of your brow To mend the immense skull plates and clear The bald, white tumuli of your eyes. I'm sure I'm not the first to say this but I think she must be the poetic cousin or test tube spawn of and. Plath is a writer i knew very little about beforehand but reading her poetry and the brilliant way she puts words together she is the type of poet I prefer. No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel On the blank stones of the landing. It is close to the small child's view of her wondrous parent -- and yet, the dignity of this colossal presence is severely compromised in the poem's first stanza: the giant sounds like a barnyard. She begins by expressing her fears of her father and how he treated her.
There is nothing to do. Breathing the air of postmodernist consumerist air, Plath mentions Lysol, a cleaning agent. It's probably safe to say that is almost as famous for her mega-sad life as she is for her poetry. But it has become her only home. Dead children, coiled as serpents, have been folded by the woman in her body.
Despite her remarkable artistic, academic, and social success at Smith, Plath suffered from severe depression and underwent a period of psychiatric hospitalization. Love and Death, all rivals, are resolved as one within the irreversibility of experience. So, though death itself may have been a side issue, it was also an unavoidable risk in writing her kind of poem. I am none the wiser. The strange psyche at the core of these poems is made powerful by its seemingly limitless ability to endure self-destruction. O father, all by yourself You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
Dawn tide stood dead low. After a number of years, hatred is built up inside of Sylvia towards her father. Also, at the time, models were sometimes referred to as mannequins; hence the title The Munich Mannequins. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1976. I too see it that way, though I mention god-husband-father. The Colossus was able to speak from beyond the grave, which illustrates its mysterious, paradoxical allure. The verses are not rhymed and the line lengths follow no regular pattern; the poem is by no means formless but is much less strictly and rigidly controlled than those poems written two years earlier.