What a thrill -
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge
Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.
Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls
Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.
Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill
The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man -
The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence
How you jump -
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.
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I think alot of people read more from this than Plath intended. I honestly think she cut her thumb, and was pissed about it. So she decided to make fun of all current and old society, and the drama of life, because she was being so dramatic about her thumb...
She was genius enough to point out a fault just be over-dramaticizing her cut thumb. Brilliant-
I'm not sure who has the power to edit on OldPoetry, but there is a typo in this, which is degrading the Plath's poem.. "Whose side are they one?" should be "on" not "one"...
Wow, I love Sylvia's work. -
After reading this poem. I had let lay to my thoughts meanings of my own. Similar are most of them. After reading your comment’ I am in total agreement with your interpretations and decipher of her illness of mind exposing also her genius. She is in my mind both. A Poet and Genius.
I’ve never studied poetry or read books filled with the words of life. But the things I find myself doing today filling my time expensing my thoughts are wishes I had not wasted my time on small trivial things in my life, but those to the explorations of something much more worthy. Poetry~
Malabu
Edited on Jul 26, 12:15 because ''. -
hmm interesting. i agree that there is great value in knowing other languages. when i start college in august im going to be taking me forth language (even though i tried to take it when i was little but couldnt because i didnt care back then...im really mad at myself for that because it set me back a good deal).
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I really do believe that if emerging poets dedicated 3-5 years of their lives exclusively to translation, we would see a great flowering of Plaths, Audens and even Cropseys -- poets of their mettle, that is, but not necessarily duplicates. Some will be content to remain translators because there is where their greatest talent lies (e.g. Edward FitzGerald); others may actually become great poets and even greater translators (e.g. Longfellow); but most, I should think, after this apprenticeship, will find their own unique voice enriched by the breath and cadences of the masters. Even if one does not learn a second language for the special purpose of translation, the value of being bilingual is so great that it supercedes any other accomplishment to which man can aspire under the rubric of "self-improvement." As Jose Marti said: "The knowledge of many different literatures frees us from the tyranny of one."
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wow i congradulate your ability to translate! it is very difficult indeed. the only poem i ever translated was another of sylvia plath's called "mad girl's love song," with i interpreted in american sign language. it took me days, and many many changes to perfect it. im not sure im good enough at any language, although i respect and admire all languages, to translate poetry very often. good luck and kudos!
~*~*Rin*~*~ -
Hello, Reneai: I think I can do you one better: Overwhelmed by the unattainable greatness of my models, and believing, as I do, that one must either be their equal or an acolyte, but never an imitator, I do not write original poetry myself, preferring instead to translate into English the works of the poets I admire. Translation is the highest form of criticism, since every word must be surveyed individually and a value assigned to it, and the meaning of each sentence must be dissected to the point that there is one and only one acceptable interpretation. In fact, I call translation hypercriticism. If you wish to further hone your already perceptive critical acumen, I recommend to you that you take up translation. As
an added benefit, there is no better way to internalize the voice of a great poet than to translate him. Regards, mantell -
thank you. poetry is a great passion of mine (reading it moreso than writing, because im not very good) and i work hard to understand it.yes, the line is polically incorrect, but you still must keep in mind that this was 30-40 years ago, and i never said that was in any textbooks. i respect your oppion about the peice, and i am glad that you tried to understand it more.
~*~*Rin*~*~ -
So, Plath has an Indian scalping a Pilgrim? Well, the poem now begins to look more interesting. And you say it is frequently anthologized in textbooks? More interesting still. Of course, historically speaking, no Pilgrim was ever scalped by an Indian. The Indians were their saviors. How refreshingly politically incorrect! No major poet would dare to pen such a line today -- unless he or she was crazy. In the poem de jour ("Ariel"), which, unlike "Cut," was written in a sane interlude, Plath even uses the "N" word. If she had been a man (or sane), she would have been written out of the canon long ago for these transgressions on the established social order. I am still unimpressed by Plath's poem, but I am very impressed by your critical apparatus, which is of the highest order, and your analytical skills, which are nothing short of miraculous in someone of your age (or any age).
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Hmm, quite interesting, interesting indeed.. it seems she writes as though this accident can suddenly become an intentional thing, a form of art for her.. The imagery, and depiction.. the questiosn this pieces arrouses. Quite an amazing write, if I do say so myself, as though my opinion really matters. This sounds almost liek somethign I'd write, only, it's not as bad.
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im not making any excuses, im just saying that to me, it makes sense. yes, she was mad, and her poems reflect that by letting us see things the way she saw them. in her head, the tip of her thumb resembles that of a pilgrim being scalped by an Indian, the way she wraps it in gauze looks like a Klansman's hat, or his babushka, which is also the word for the Russian grandmother's kerchief...the purpose behind the kamikaze man reference was to say that even this small cut can kill (it is a "saboteur." a kamikaze man is one solitary person-relatively insignificant in the big picture of the world-and yet he can destroy hundreds of others with one suicide bombing).
again, im not making excuses for her...im not saying she was sane or that i dont accept her the way she was. im simply a student of poetry, and im interpreting her words, because that is part of the job. she may be cryptic, but any poet or expert of poetry will tell you that this is what separates good poems for the bad ones. take the first two stanzas, and you have nothing but a short, shallow narrative about a cooking mishap. even i, and i openly admit i am not a very good poet, could write this part. its in the analogies and the the symbolism that we see genius in Plath. poetry is about depth and reading between the lines and boldfaced text. depth is what separates great poetry from the rest of the world. without it, we'd have nothing but pop songs without melody.
just because Plath was mentally ill does not mean that she was illogical. she clearly took time and careful effort in selecting her words...Plath was not one to let her words "go on automatic." each word is chosen with care and each has a distinct meaning behind it. i see nothing with the intension of comedy, and ive spent enough time analyzing poetry to see the difference between something incongruous and a perfectly planned out metaphor.
im not trying to attack your critical judgment, and im sorry if i sound that way, but i think you underestimate her skill. again, try and look below the immediate sight of the words and think about what it is they mean.
Edited on Jul 19, 10:46 p.m. because ''. -
Hello, Rineai: I am still unconvinced that this poem makes any sense after the first two stanzas. It is undoubtedly a brilliant idea for a poem, and we are at first startled and delighted by the poet's grasp of the common incidents of life that have uncommon meaning. We have all been cut and stared transfixed at that little flap of dangling skin as if we hoped to discover the mystery of ourselves and the universe through that tiny apperture. This fascination is primal and reflexive: children exhibit this behavior at the earliest age. This is undoubtedly a great idea for a poem and this would have been a great poem if Plath had not introduced into it a Pilgrim; an Indian; redcoats; the Ku Klux Klan; a babushka (Russian grandmother) and a kamikaze man. As Groucho said in one of his movies, "Does anybody else want to come inside the cabin." Seriously, these additions, unless meant to be comical (and they fail by that standard, too), are clearly incongruous and border on unbalanced. Plath, of course, was half-mad half the time, so we can make some allowance for that; but so was Lowell, and his poems are sound even when he was unsound. So, it is not my critical judgment that has failed me; but Plath's reason that has sadly betrayed her. Make no excuses for her; she would have hated you for it. Accept her as she is.
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i dont believe that she should have stopped at all, go back and read it again...look beyond the surface and you'll see that she makes perfect sence. shes describing the way it looks and feels with a myriad of brilliant comparisions... she even describes the blood running from her finger as a battle of soldiers, and even she doesnt know which side she's on...does she want the blood to stop or would she rather sit and watch as it run down her hand? its remarkable and sickening at the same time. even for a seasoned veteran of this battle, the poem made me a little queasy at first! i love this, and i hope you take the time to understand what she wanted you to understand.
~*~*Rin*~*~
Edited on Jul 19, 9:27 p.m. because 'spelling'. -
This is definitely a piece characterizing Plath herself. We studied her in high school, and I remember how easily wrapped in her poetry I could become.
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A fine poem if the Plath had stopped writing after completing the first two stanzas. The rest makes absolutely no sense. It's a miracle she didn't throw in the kitchen sink and the emperor's new clothes, for good measure. Some poets believe that when they themselves cease to understand what they are saying it is time to stop the poem. The insistence on continuing beyond that point is what makes bad poems even from great poets. When the poem is going on automatic, the creative process has ceased, and inevitably the poem will crash.
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One of my all time favorites. The thrill of "accidentally" cutting yourself is described so perfectly here. Poignant poetry at its finest.
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