The empty space you left permeates,
Infectious, hollows mind.
A world vast and warmthless
I’m still breathing with corrupted lungs,
Chocked by the ashes that fall
As the winter comes.
The lover that went wrong,
My name forgotten, blurry and gone.
I was the reckless, the only youth (between us)
Falling for that youthful dream that drowned in your leaden truth.
I knew you were bleeding (before all this),
But you are the lucky one.
Because the dying is the one that you think went wrong.
I am the one naïve youth that you will soon forget,
Left in the far field
With the blade still deep
Bury under the skin.
Missing the hand that
Once hold the grip.
I’m still missing.
After Daughter, Elena Tonra “Youth”
(This is only a short and incomplete note on my thought on Anne Carson’s work, which should not be taken seriously.)
It would probably better, to read “Autobiography of red” before reading this. Maybe some extra Greek mythology would help too.
But I enjoy the read, as it is a journey of word play, not just playing with words, but the structure of sentence, paragraph, visual effect, and sound, eventually, this is a prose poem, like the greek saga, should be listened.
I believe Charlotte Perkins Gilman said herself that she never thought about being a novelist, yet she wrote amazing stories.
In a sense she’s maybe referring to her ability to construct a complete, thorough structure for her novel, as her short fictions are the ones that continue to catch our eyes more than a century later. It’s not that her novel isn’t amazing, it is just that her short stories are much more distilled, with simple but powerful idea that each contains a hard-to-avoid narrative.
Her essays, which are equally important and deserve to be collected and preserved, however, are less distinguish as her fictional work from my point of view; theory evolves with new research and social condition and can be outdated. With so much development and fundamental shift, feminism today is far broader and more complex than the one her generation struggle to develop. Although many are still not achieved, we can see that feminist today has a much more diverse goals and her essays are more of a philosophical foundation than practical tools any more.
I enjoy the short fictions significantly more than her other works.
This isn’t restrictedly speaking a novel, but it provide something much more than just an account.
I was occupied by the story after watching the film when I was probably the same age as Susanna Kaysen when she was confined to the McLean Hospital. I didn’t know either, at the time, that Sylvia Plath was one of the prominent figures who stay shortly in the same institute. After so many years I realized that I am always fascinated by this kind of stories because I was one; a revelation made after eventually reading the book.
But each one of us, Susanna, Sylvia, Lisa, Daisy, Georgiana, is dealing with a unique situation that only belong to that intimate self, as such, though there are sentences and observations that strike me hardly, the story is actually foreign to me, and it makes the book witty, obscure at some passage, funny, sadden, and intriguing at the same time.
This is not the reality that Sylvia tried to tell us by poetry, not the dark drama something like Joker would demonstrate, not the incredibly deep reflection by Virginia, but a POV from someone who was, by her own words, interrupted.
The morning mist is famous to the musing gaze of the wondering soul,
Whiteness hooves across the fields,
Taking away the breath
Of the leaving train.
We disappointed her,
Letting her through to that stillness.
Her skin bright as a lampshade.
She is famous
While loneliness is famous to
After Naomi Shihab Nye “Famous”
And Sylvia Plath “Sheep in Fog” and “Lady Lazarus”
You will lose your one true love,
And it would be so painful that you truly understand how death is so peaceful.
You would know that void is nothing more than
A wishful state
As hollow swallows you
While agony permeate the once empty space.
How unfortunate –
a detached fetus,
yet an unborn,
fragmented with still lukewarm
A lump like a lemon,
That greyish red tissue.
A cake marinated with cold jelly,
Your warm affection
No more into the heart.
I hold (on to) it,
Clutch our unborn
of rosy future.
A grief, that is.
Alone in the room
A dead silence
Sing with the drifted weep.
Where is the mother?
Love, “I am ill.”
I’ve been prescribed a pill to bury
do(es)n’t leave me.
The stain on your
Misty and mistaken and when
Agitate your heart
Change your dark
Room of wound
How you depart –
Mother without birth.
*Recomposed from Cut by Sylvia Plath