How far is it?
How far is it now?
The gigantic gorilla interior
Of the wheels move, they appall me —-
The terrible brains
Of Krupp, black muzzles
Revolving, the sound
Punching out Absence! Like cannon.
It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other.
I am dragging my body
Quietly through the straw of the boxcars.
Now is the time for bribery.
What do wheels eat, these wheels
Fixed to their arcs like gods,
The silver leash of the will ——
Inexorable. And their pride!
All the gods know destinations.
I am a letter in this slot!
I fly to a name, two eyes.
Will there be fire, will there be bread?
Here there is such mud.
It is a trainstop, the nurses
Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery,
Touching their wounded,
The men the blood still pumps forward,
Legs, arms piled outside
The tent of unending cries ——
A hospital of dolls.
And the men, what is left of the men
Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood
Into the next mile,
The next hour ——
Dynasty of broken arrows!
How far is it?
There is mud on my feet,
Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side,
This earth I rise from, and I in agony.
I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming.
Steaming and breathing, its teeth
Ready to roll, like a devil's.
There is a minute at the end of it
A minute, a dewdrop.
How far is it?
It is so small
The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ——
The body of this woman,
Charred skirts and deathmask
Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children.
And now detonations ——
Thunder and guns.
The fire's between us.
Is there no place
Turning and turning in the middle air,
Untouchable and untouchable.
The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ——
An animal
Insane for the destination,
The bloodspot,
The face at the end of the flare.
I shall bury the wounded like pupas,
I shall count and bury the dead.
Let their souls writhe in like dew,
Incense in my track.
The carriages rock, they are cradles.
And I, stepping from this skin
Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces
Step up to you from the black car of Lethe,
Pure as a baby.
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I don't think she was off her rocker either. I especially like how she compares a hospital to war-torn Russia, or at least I think she did. Great imagery, and it flows smoothely. Five stars.
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actually catressa...Sylvia had been in a psyche ward for awhile...for major depression and suicidal tendencies...she tried to kill herself more than once and failed. I don't think she was ever all that happy, and her husband cheated on her which added fuel to the fire. poor woman loved her children but I honestly think she felt they were better off without her when she finally went through with it and ended it. some judge her, but I was not in her place so I cannot say what it is like to be in that frame of mind. she was truly a gifted person and I am so glad I am able o read her poems today. I only wish she had actually did have everything...
~ Lea -
Have you read her biography? She never had it all even when everyone else outside of her 'self' and 'view' thought she did. She didn't suffer just from 'loneliness' from what I've read about her she had a psychosis of sorts, a deeper illness and from reading her work I felt that she was displaced from reality.
One who is just lonely doesn't gas themselves to death. Usually those who are depressed in that manner take more 'painful' recourses than non-painful; because, in the end, they wish to feel 'something'.
She was in a turmoil in her youth not just adulthood and really if one goes over her life: she never really had an 'adulthood' at all.
To me, it was all a facade.
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I don't think she was off her rocker at all. I think she like most women suffered from pure loneliness. She had it all and was still unhappy. Think of it, the education, money , children, the never ending quest that most women though many might admit it, we all still search for something some depth some reason. For our lives. Are we just vessels? Is this all we are meant to be? And that tore her up.. I like you loved this.. Take Care, Catressa
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This piece read to me as if she was trying to escape from something, as if she was running away from something and there were many obstacles in her way and she couldn't get over some but she tried and she persisted but at the end I feel it's melancholy, I feel she didn't actually succeed - it's all a facade.
I feel that's why she ends it the way she does: to be innocent and clean is to be free - yet she isn't.
It was fast-paced in that angst-ridden turmoil in some parts, and that's why I get that feeling that she was running or trying to escape.
A good piece written by Plath.
Edited on Oct 05, 1:35 p.m. because ''. -
Breath taking
Personally, I think Plath was a bit off her rocker in the first place, in addition to being extremely depressed. She pushed herself really hard...not to mention that the period of time in which she wrote this particular poem, I think she was going through rough times with her husband Ted (maybe they were already separated? correct me if I'm wrong...)
But the lafe-as-a-means-to-attain-death-and-then-rebirth metaphor is present in lots of her poetry ("Lady Lazerus" for example).
I love this poem...I could talk about it for hours.
Edited on Apr 12, 9:10 because 'spelling'. -
Love the imagery and metaphors. Again here I noticed the end which leaves us 'pure as a baby.' Face Lift contained that as well as some of her other poems.
What tainted her so that she felt so strongly that she needed to be cleansed?
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