Sylvia Plath is probably one of the most tragic figures of recent years. Such people fascinate me. They seem to live with a greater intensity than the rest of the world. Of course it isn’t pretty. At least most of it, isn’t. But I imagine experiencing life through their senses, the colours -brighter, sounds -distinct and the voices in the head- articulate. May be it is this intensity that burns them out so soon, even as it emits a brightness that is felt for years after.
Jilted reminds me of teenage. Shallow sorrows. No less bitter (sour?) for the shallowness. It seems like the whole world at the time...but you know, even then, that looking back it will, probably, be nothing. You know it is silly to cry about a chance remark you overheard, made by people you don’t care about. And yet, you can’t stop feeling bad about it.
The next one I read was Love is a Parallax. I know, it took some guts to embark on this one! The title is just awesome. I looked up the exact meaning of parallax:
1. an apparent change in the position of an object when the person looking at the object changes position
2. the angle between two imaginary lines from two different observation points meeting at an astronomical object, used to measure the object's distance from Earth
Both definitions are brilliant in this context! But I believe the poet was going with the first one. Or could be the second?
I completely missed the beauty of this poem the first several times I read it. The language is tough. But there is an underlying beauty. Sylvia starts with a bold claim that train tracks do meet!
'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
in the impossible mind's eye;
There are some priceless moments in the poem...like:
'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
is our life's whole nemesis.
If everything is a point of view...then why spend our lives doubting? Freeing, isn’t it?
I came across recitation of this poem on youtube, read with a very solemn voice. But to me, there is a jaunty rhythm to this poem... moments of playfulness.
The most outstanding characteristic of this poem is the use of exaggerated imagery. You know, when you are in love (or high)...the whole world moves in a different manner... certain things are more pronounced and others fade away to the background? And nothing seems to matter anyway? Well...that is the feeling I get (yeah...I don’t pretend to understand the similes and metaphors here, but I get it, at a more emotional level) from reading the following:
So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
playing his prodigal charades.
The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
graves all carol in reply.
Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
while footlights flare and houselights dim.
Even as you are entertained by dubious dames, Santa clauses and strict fathers...the poet brings you down to reality...that one day lovers will part and life will come to an end. That even as we live and love, we are moving towards calamity, ultimately to be annihilated. The poem ends with these lines:
Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
the simple sum of heart plus heart.
.
Haunting....today we start to pay the piper with each breath! The more I read it...the more I totally love it....and the less I understand it!
Oh yeah, Sylvia Plath was discussed in the 11thFeb meeting of the poetry club, her 48th death anniversary. Coincidence? Hmm...
