Found It!

 

Don't you love that feeling after you have looked for something for a few days and finally find it?  I know what you are thinking and no, it wasn't this picture.  I had nearly given up hope of ever remembering what Sylvia Plath poem it was that I analyzed at age 18 in my high school English class (I discussed this poem in a previous post), but my diligence has finally paid off.  I first came across this poem rather serendipitously, picking it at random out of a stack my teacher had made available to the class.  I acknowledge my first reaction to the poem was a bit of dazed bewilderment.  This soon transformed into that raptured awe that Marie Howe describes so well "Be completely open-innocent, if you will, of a poem.  Walk in, just like it's water, and say, 'what's this?' And read it over and over again.... Read with that kind of ignorant joy, and let yourself be bewildered when you're bewildered."

So I allowed myself to be perplexed, to gaze in wonderment of the violent imagery, the denseness of both simile and metaphor, and the overall anguished voice trying to convey anguish of which no one else will ever understand.  The free verse felt inviting to me.  It said "I am straight forward, I am not holding anything back, these are my true, unadulterated feelings".  For me, this made Words more relatable than a fixed form poem and much more intriguing than any other piece of verse I had ever encountered.  I wanted to dissect it and put the puzzle back together. 

After reading over her poem a few times I knew I would have to do a little extra research to get a firmer grip on what the poem was trying to say.  So I read a brief biography of Plath and an analysis of the poem.  As I write this post I remember very little of the analysis except that she writing mainly about her father.  I have a great relationship with my dad.  I was not one of those kids that got made fun of a lot in high school.  So why did I relate to this poem?  Plath had the sort of passion for her poetry that I wanted for my own life.  She put her whole, undivided soul into her poetry.  She put her life on the line, insomuch that eventually it got the better of her and she took her own life.

Find Something Difficult To Do And Do It Write

I think I may be having too much fun with these pun titles.  I had a teacher in high school tell me that you can tell a pun is good when it inflicts physical pain upon its victim.  I guess that is true in most cases, but it hurts so good.

My senior year of high school consisted of numerous pursuits of an athletic and academic in nature.  I was also involved in church activities, plays, and piano.  My schedule was packed about as tight as it could be.  I remember feeling overwhelmed and slightly unfulfilled by it all.  Then, my English did a unit on poetry.  I was assigned to analyze a work by Sylvia Plath.  I do not recall which of her many poems it was, but I can never forget how the emotions she conveyed attracted my attention.  It was as if she had cut her self open and these words came spilling out of her, unable to be dammed by propriety or social restraint.  To my untrained eye many of the phrases appeared non sequitorial. Although I could not make sense of everything she said, I knew she was raw and I knew she was real.  It was especially exciting when I had a wild idea: maybe I could do something like this.

I know Sylvia Plath is not much of a role model.  I know how she met her end.  But I truly believe that her poetry was instrumental in preserving her short life to the length that it lasted.  All of us are imperfect.  Poetry is simply a medium through which we can attempt to make sense of a complicated reality.