Sylvia Plath
The American poet Sylvia Plath was born in Boston, Massachusetts in the year 1932. In 1940, her father, Otto Plath (a professor of Biology and German at Boston University), died after suffering from a long illness. This traumatic even strongly effected the young Plath and continued to haunt her for the rest of her life. At times, is evident in her poetry.
Plath started writing at a very young age, already writing at the age of five. She had her first poem published at the age of eight. She had a number of poems published in her time, but also received many rejection slips. In 1950, she entered Smith College, Massachusetts.
Plath suffered from depression. She was given electric shock treatment for this, but it only deepened her depression further, to the point that she attempted suicide and had to spend time in a psychiatric hospital.
She met a young English poet, Ted Hughes, while studying at Cambridge University, England. The two were married in 1956. April 1960 saw the birth of their daughter, Frieda, who features in Plath’s poetry. Their son, Nicholas, was born in January 1962, and shortly after this, Ted and Sylvia separated.
Sylvia Plath took her own life on the 11th of February, 1963.
Plath started writing at a very young age, already writing at the age of five. She had her first poem published at the age of eight. She had a number of poems published in her time, but also received many rejection slips. In 1950, she entered Smith College, Massachusetts.
Plath suffered from depression. She was given electric shock treatment for this, but it only deepened her depression further, to the point that she attempted suicide and had to spend time in a psychiatric hospital.
She met a young English poet, Ted Hughes, while studying at Cambridge University, England. The two were married in 1956. April 1960 saw the birth of their daughter, Frieda, who features in Plath’s poetry. Their son, Nicholas, was born in January 1962, and shortly after this, Ted and Sylvia separated.
Sylvia Plath took her own life on the 11th of February, 1963.
"The Arrival of the Bee Box"I ordered this, clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift. I would say it was the coffin of a midget Or a square baby Were there not such a din in it. The box is locked, it is dangerous. I have to live with it overnight And I can't keep away from it. There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there. There is only a little grid, no exit. I put my eye to the grid. It is dark, dark, With the swarmy feeling of African hands Minute and shrunk for export, Black on black, angrily clambering. How can I let them out? It is the noise that appalls me most of all, The unintelligible syllables. It is like a Roman mob, Small, taken one by one, but my god, together! I lay my ear to furious Latin. I am not a Caesar. I have simply ordered a box of maniacs. They can be sent back. They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner. I wonder how hungry they are. I wonder if they would forget me If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree. There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades, And the petticoats of the cherry. They might ignore me immediately In my moon suit and funeral veil. I am no source of honey So why should they turn on me? Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free. The box is only temporary. |
"Poppies in July"Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm? You flicker. I cannot touch you. I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns. And it exhausts me to watch you Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth. A mouth just bloodied. Little bloody skirts! There are fumes that I cannot touch. Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules? If I could bleed, or sleep! ------------- If my mouth could marry a hurt like that! Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule, Dulling and stilling. But colorless. Colorless. Download the notes:
"Child"Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks, The zoo of the new Whose name you meditate-- April snowdrop, Indian pipe, Little Stalk without wrinkle, Pool in which images Should be grand and classical Not this troublous Wringing of hands, this dark Ceiling without a star. |
Sample Questions
“In Plath’s poetry, we are introduced to a disturbed and disturbing world.” Discuss, referring both to the content and style of Plath’s poetry. | |
File Size: | 32 kb |
File Type: | doc |