Showing posts with label Sylvia Plath. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sylvia Plath. Show all posts

Friday, 21 September 2018

Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath







Sylvia Plath was born on 27, 1932, in Boston, Massachusetts. Plath belongs to the 20th century of poetry known as confessional poetry. She was known as a poet and a novelist. Her interest of writing started at an early age. She won a scholarship to Smith College in 1950 because of publishing large number of her works. Sylvia Plath at the end committed suicide after two previous attempts. At the third attempt she succeeded in killing herself. At the first two attempts she really did not want to die. She wanted also to live.



In the poem “Lady Lazarus” she mentioned “I have done it again” which means her previous attempts to die. She was caught between her attractions to life as well as to death.


Sylvia Plath married Ted Hughes who was also a poet in 1956. It was a stormy relationship. In 1960, Plath published her first collection of poetry, “The Colossus” at England. And in the same year she gave a birth to their first child, a daughter and after two years later she had a son as the second child. But she was unfortunate to failing her marriage apart.


After Ted Hughes left her for another woman, she was in a deep depression. Struggling with her mental illnesses she wrote “The Bell Jar”, her only novel.  It is based on her life and deals with one young woman’s mental disorder. Plath was the first person to win a posthumous Pulitzer prize in 1982.


On February 11, 1963 Sylvia Plath died  by committing suicide.

Mirror (Part 1)


Mirror








I am silver and extract. I have no preconception,

Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unlisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful
The eye of a little god, four cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.



Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is
Then she turns to those liars, the candle or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. she comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face the replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me and old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)