I think her poetry, and Tulips, are brilliant! Touch nerves. Poetry is not to make you feel good, but to reach places in all of us, that we are afraid to reach. Plath does it with the most magnificent prose and imagery , like none other.
This was the first Plath poem I ever read when I was a teenager. I absolutely adore Sylvia's voice, so listening to her read her own words is such a treat! It has such a rich, warm, and forthright tone to it. It reminds me of Lauren Bacall who commanded the silver screen with unshakable confidence. Sylvia Plath was a woman of extraordinary depth, complexity, and talent. May she be remembered for her powerful words forevermore. ❤
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons. They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are. My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage-- My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks. I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free-- The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet. The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color, A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck. Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine. They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself. The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health.
Thank you for posting the words. For me, it adds another layer of enjoyment, understanding, and depth to see the words along with the reading. Probably because I am more of a visual learner than an auditory one. So, thanks again! I love her soooo much.
***** thankyou for the texts, i have a version of this poem, that I wrote down by hand, but no longer remember the source, however two of the verses I do not know..., my body is a pebble to them..., and before they cam the air was calm enough...Is it possible there was an earlier version I wonder?
it kind of upsets me to hear this. I don't think her poetry, ariel especially, is meant for desperate people; and to claim it seems arrogant. people at any stage of grief can appreciate her words... and just to fuck with your hypothesis, i've been institutionalized 4 times and take no pride in it. frankly I doubt you've had that experience and decided it was worth bragging about on youtube comments...
@@cognitiv3 What is your problem? This poem resonated deeply with me, it is incredibly heartfelt. The idea of the lack of privacy, no one watched me and now they all watch me... a panopticon. No privacy while sleeping or changing, just random crazy people walking into your room. Barriers are a foreign concept, forgotten, as far away as health was...
"Well then, that has had it's time! My suffering and my pity for suffering---what does it matter? Am I concerned with happiness? I am concerned with my work." The melancholy of my youth, that too, has had its time.
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons. They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are. My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage-- My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks. I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free-- The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet. The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color, A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck. Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine. They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself. The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health.
Most of her poems seem to take a pessimistic view on situations. She describes the tulips she gets in the mental hospital not as a precious gift, but as a painful hindrance, which is taking away her oxygen and cramping up the room. I have so much sympathy for her in this position. I can't possibly imagine what it must feel like to have to suffer this way.
It's a good thing (for you) that you cannot imagine what it feels like to suffer this way... It consumes you, for it is omnipresent, like air, but an air that suffocates, in the dusk...
MrChannelReview it’s actually not all sad. It seems like she despises the tulips but they’re the only thing that keeps here tethered to reality. She barely pays any attention to her doctors and nurses but the tulips seem to catch her attention repeatedly. They make her observant, peak her interest and spark creativity.
If someone is interested in feminist politics one should read her unabridged journals and read her early struggles as a woman and as a future writer. Plus her struggle with her own sexuality within the confines of the early 50s. Within the beginnings of the journals she lists what would fester in her and be dangerous. And sure enough it would be if her future husband would have an attractive woman as a mistress. (page 101)
Totally agree with you Jim, in fact in today's revisionist times, I would say she could even be classed as a misogynist, I mean with lines like this from Daddy:- Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face. There is no intelligence in criticism these days, everything is taken at face value and is analysed through the lens of the contemporary new Victorianism puritanical views. So if Kimpling is a racist she must be a misogynist.
@@ronaldrime5286 Hi Ronald, I think you will find some good stuff online about her, but I think she just suffered from mental health issues all her life. Don't know if it was depression or bipolar, something like that. She made a serious attempt at suicide when she was 18, came very close that time to killing herself. But the second time she attempted it in her 30's she had a couple of young kids and had just found out her husband had been cheating on her, I think that was the catalyst, as I say you'll find better descriptions of you look it up.
@@yakacm Thanks for the info. I'm sorry to know she was so depressed. I guess a lot of great poets and artists are. As for her cheating husband; his loss! It's just too bad the children ended up without their mother.
The walls at Blue Ribbon seem to be warming themselves and I am reminded of my heart, my fangs, of Ariel in the sand and me in my toes--greedy with every step the inch towards domesticity.
To Sylvia, in empathy... TREPIDATION AT DUSK During the past several months, fear, silence and solitude kept me company Somehow, it feels like a murky veil was cast around my frame, like a dungeon So confined is my soul, that it is impossible to discern comrades from foes Despite my self-imposed captivity, I ride imaginary pink clouds, as I dream… Deeply engaged in imaginary exploits, I jaunt an obscure haze, seeking exodus Somehow, I must have turned into a voluntary hostage of my own dread, at dusk So absorbed I am, attempting to recognize insignias, that I fail to find a pathway Despite my desperate struggle to flee, I follow the script of my endless nightmare… Utterly perplexed, I continue embroiled in mystery, determined to face misgivings Somehow, my entire existence hustles like photons, jumping between universes So that I might overlook all sources of terror, and the monsters of yesterday Despite the wicked ghouls, looming in the shadows, I ensue towards the light…
Ironic how such a singularly insistent and clarion voice announces desiring it's own effacement and undoing. O Sylvia. Your poem corresponds to a kind of healthy rage against an uncaring world. It corresponds with us. Not Ted, though. He was kind of a dick.
If Ted was a kind of dick why the fuck did she marry him. I think he was very brave to marry such a neurotic, though talented woman. His affairs were de rigeuer with men of the time, women then got feminism..and Ted type balls were cut off
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons. They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are. My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage-- My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks. I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free-- The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet. The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color, A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck. Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine. They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself. The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health.
Thank you! I've always preferred to listen to new poetry or songs while following the written words - it must have taken you a while so I just wanted to say I appreciate it 🔥
I'm going to say my first impression is that Sylvia sounds much older than she really is. She sounds like a stuffy 60 year old lady. Reminds of a strict old teacher I used to have.
It is what was known as the Transatlantic accent. It was taught in schools in the early 20th century. That is why all the old movie actors spoke with a quasi-English quasi-American accent.
Los tulipanes son demasiado excitables, aquí es invierno. Mira qué blanco está todo, qué tranquilo, qué nevado. Estoy aprendiendo tranquilidad, mintiendo solo en silencio Mientras la luz miente en estas paredes blancas, esta cama, estas manos. No soy nadie; No tengo nada que ver con explosiones. He dado mi nombre y mi ropa de día a las enfermeras. Y mi historia al anestesista y mi cuerpo a los cirujanos. Me han apoyado la cabeza entre la almohada y el puño de sábana Como un ojo entre dos párpados blancos que no se cerrará. Estúpida pupila, tiene que asimilar todo. Las enfermeras pasan y pasan, no son problema, Pasan por el camino de las gaviotas tierra adentro con sus gorros blancos, Haciendo cosas con sus manos, una igual que la otra, Por lo tanto, es imposible saber cuántos hay. Mi cuerpo es un guijarro para ellos, lo tienden como agua Tiende a los guijarros que debe atropellar, alisándolos suavemente. Me traen entumecimiento en sus agujas brillantes, me traen sueño. Ahora que me he perdido, estoy harto de equipaje ... Mi estuche de charol de noche como un pastillero negro, Mi esposo y mi hijo sonríen fuera de la foto familiar; Sus sonrisas se adhieren a mi piel, pequeños ganchos sonrientes. He dejado pasar las cosas, un barco de carga de treinta años tercamente aferrado a mi nombre y dirección. Me han limpiado de mis asociaciones amorosas. Asustado y desnudo en el carro verde con almohadas de plástico Observé mi teaset, mis oficinas de lino, mis libros Hundirse fuera de la vista, y el agua pasó por mi cabeza. Soy una monja ahora, nunca he sido tan pura. No quería flores, solo quería Acostarse con las manos levantadas y estar completamente vacío. Cuán libre es, no tienes idea de cuán libre-- La tranquilidad es tan grande que te aturde Y no pide nada, una etiqueta con su nombre, algunas baratijas. Es lo que los muertos cierran, finalmente; Los imagino Cerrando la boca, como una tableta de comunión. Los tulipanes son demasiado rojos en primer lugar, me duelen. Incluso a través del papel de regalo podía escucharlos respirar Ligeramente, a través de sus pañales blancos, como un bebé horrible. Su enrojecimiento habla con mi herida, corresponde. Son sutiles: parecen flotar, aunque me pesan, Me molesta con sus lenguas repentinas y su color, Una docena de plomadas de plomo rojo me rodean el cuello. Nadie me miraba antes, ahora estoy vigilado. Los tulipanes se vuelven hacia mí y la ventana detrás de mí. Donde una vez al día la luz se ensancha lentamente y se diluye lentamente, Y me veo a mí mismo, plano, ridículo, una sombra de papel cortado Entre los ojos del sol y los ojos de los tulipanes, Y no tengo cara, he querido borrarme. Los tulipanes vivos se comen mi oxígeno. Antes de que llegaran, el aire estaba lo suficientemente tranquilo. Yendo y viniendo, respiración por respiración, sin ningún problema. Luego los tulipanes lo llenaron como un ruido fuerte. Ahora el aire se engancha y revuelve alrededor de ellos como un río Enganches y remolinos rodean un motor rojo óxido hundido. Concentraron mi atención, eso fue feliz Jugar y descansar sin comprometerse. Las paredes también parecen estar calentándose. Los tulipanes deben estar tras las rejas como animales peligrosos; Se abren como la boca de un gran gato africano, Y soy consciente de mi corazón: se abre y se cierra Su cuenco de flores rojas por puro amor hacia mí. El agua que pruebo es cálida y salada, como el mar, Y viene de un país lejano como el de la salud.
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons. They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are. My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage-- My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks. I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free-- The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet. The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color, A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck. Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine. They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself. The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health.
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Depression: “Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut”
Brilliant
"Peacefulness so big it dazes you" 🛌 I want this inscribed on my tomb when I'm gone.
Intravenous drugs do that to you.
Few writers read their own work so well.....also such a wonderful picture.Her early Diaries are unbelievable.
I love Yeats, too, but don’t ever google him reading his work. Sylvia is a wonder of the internet.
I think her poetry, and Tulips, are brilliant! Touch nerves. Poetry is not to make you feel good, but to reach places in all of us, that we are afraid to reach. Plath does it with the most magnificent prose and imagery , like none other.
💜💜💜
Maybe they’re places we don’t know how to reach
@@tj03297 maybe. But. Sylvia is a force of nature. She find you. And reach you.
@@sanjaivkovic9126 agreed. it is the job of the artist to articulate the feelings that us mortals are not able to
@@tj03297 I am able friend. 300%
This was the first Plath poem I ever read when I was a teenager. I absolutely adore Sylvia's voice, so listening to her read her own words is such a treat! It has such a rich, warm, and forthright tone to it. It reminds me of Lauren Bacall who commanded the silver screen with unshakable confidence. Sylvia Plath was a woman of extraordinary depth, complexity, and talent. May she be remembered for her powerful words forevermore. ❤
I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free.
I love you, Sylvia, and your works remain.
i have nothing to do with explosions
This.
I’ve been thinking of this line so much
I'm so sorry but this seems funny to me.
Explosions? 🙄Where are they?🥴
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage--
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free--
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.
Thank you for posting the words. For me, it adds another layer of enjoyment, understanding, and depth to see the words along with the reading. Probably because I am more of a visual learner than an auditory one. So, thanks again! I love her soooo much.
***** thankyou for the texts, i have a version of this poem, that I wrote down by hand, but no longer remember the source, however two of the verses I do not know..., my body is a pebble to them..., and before they cam the air was calm enough...Is it possible there was an earlier version I wonder?
Very intense
Thank you.
@Oona Craig That is Sylvia Plath, the author reading.
after being hospitalized 7 times in a year I can say I truly understand this more than anyone could ever know
it kind of upsets me to hear this. I don't think her poetry, ariel especially, is meant for desperate people; and to claim it seems arrogant. people at any stage of grief can appreciate her words... and just to fuck with your hypothesis, i've been institutionalized 4 times and take no pride in it. frankly I doubt you've had that experience and decided it was worth bragging about on youtube comments...
@@cognitiv3 What is your problem? This poem resonated deeply with me, it is incredibly heartfelt. The idea of the lack of privacy, no one watched me and now they all watch me... a panopticon. No privacy while sleeping or changing, just random crazy people walking into your room. Barriers are a foreign concept, forgotten, as far away as health was...
round of applause
I am so sorry. I wish only the best to you. You are loved.❤
@@cognitiv3 facts, the commenter above thinks they’re the main character of the movie
the tulips eat my oxygen
"Well then, that has had it's time! My suffering and my pity for suffering---what does it matter? Am I concerned with happiness? I am concerned with my work." The melancholy of my youth, that too, has had its time.
Peacefulness so big it dazes you.
This poem hits me in the heart so much because I know because I've been in her position. She captures everything so perfectly!
ditto
you really think you’ve been in her position? really?
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage--
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free--
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.
I feel her every words..
Most of her poems seem to take a pessimistic view on situations. She describes the tulips she gets in the mental hospital not as a precious gift, but as a painful hindrance, which is taking away her oxygen and cramping up the room. I have so much sympathy for her in this position. I can't possibly imagine what it must feel like to have to suffer this way.
It's a good thing (for you) that you cannot imagine what it feels like to suffer this way... It consumes you, for it is omnipresent, like air, but an air that suffocates, in the dusk...
This was written about an appendectomy surgery.
MrChannelReview it’s actually not all sad. It seems like she despises the tulips but they’re the only thing that keeps here tethered to reality. She barely pays any attention to her doctors and nurses but the tulips seem to catch her attention repeatedly. They make her observant, peak her interest and spark creativity.
@@christymesser8509 The context is an appendectomy surgery, but that's quite clearly not the subject matter.
Right, you must have no idea what it’s like to feel burdened by existence itself
If someone is interested in feminist politics one should read her unabridged journals and read her early struggles as a woman and as a future writer. Plus her struggle with her own sexuality within the confines of the early 50s. Within the beginnings of the journals she lists what would fester in her and be dangerous. And sure enough it would be if her future husband would have an attractive woman as a mistress. (page 101)
Totally agree with you Jim, in fact in today's revisionist times, I would say she could even be classed as a misogynist, I mean with lines like this from Daddy:-
Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face.
There is no intelligence in criticism these days, everything is taken at face value and is analysed through the lens of the contemporary new Victorianism puritanical views. So if Kimpling is a racist she must be a misogynist.
@@yakacm I've only recently learned about Sylvia Plath. Why did she kill herself?
@@ronaldrime5286 Hi Ronald, I think you will find some good stuff online about her, but I think she just suffered from mental health issues all her life. Don't know if it was depression or bipolar, something like that. She made a serious attempt at suicide when she was 18, came very close that time to killing herself. But the second time she attempted it in her 30's she had a couple of young kids and had just found out her husband had been cheating on her, I think that was the catalyst, as I say you'll find better descriptions of you look it up.
@@yakacm Thanks for the info. I'm sorry to know she was so depressed. I guess a lot of great poets and artists are. As for her cheating husband; his loss! It's just too bad the children ended up without their mother.
I read her poetry because it fills me with so much. Not because of ideology. Ideology kills.
I am a 15 year old girl who believes Plath was more than a sad writer , I just wanna give her hug
You're right...she was.
You read her well. She was a closet romantic.
How much more!
Such a great poet.
How sad that her illness took hew away!
The walls at Blue Ribbon seem to be warming themselves and I am reminded of my heart, my fangs, of Ariel in the sand and me in my toes--greedy with every step the inch towards domesticity.
Someone take back those god damn Tulips!
Why so talented and magnificent
Perfect
A country as far away as health
Wish you a very Happy Birthday Sylvia. We're so glad to find you. Maybe one day I'll dedicate my book to you.
To Sylvia, in empathy...
TREPIDATION AT DUSK
During the past several months, fear, silence and solitude kept me company
Somehow, it feels like a murky veil was cast around my frame, like a dungeon
So confined is my soul, that it is impossible to discern comrades from foes
Despite my self-imposed captivity, I ride imaginary pink clouds, as I dream…
Deeply engaged in imaginary exploits, I jaunt an obscure haze, seeking exodus
Somehow, I must have turned into a voluntary hostage of my own dread, at dusk
So absorbed I am, attempting to recognize insignias, that I fail to find a pathway
Despite my desperate struggle to flee, I follow the script of my endless nightmare…
Utterly perplexed, I continue embroiled in mystery, determined to face misgivings
Somehow, my entire existence hustles like photons, jumping between universes
So that I might overlook all sources of terror, and the monsters of yesterday
Despite the wicked ghouls, looming in the shadows, I ensue towards the light…
magnificent
Ironic how such a singularly insistent and clarion voice announces desiring it's own effacement and undoing. O Sylvia. Your poem corresponds to a kind of healthy rage against an uncaring world. It corresponds with us. Not Ted, though. He was kind of a dick.
And he was a terrible poet.
Marco Dellorusso his poetry isn't half bad actually stfu!!
People should stop judging their relationship and just enjoy what they produced.
If Ted was a kind of dick why the fuck did she marry him. I think he was very brave to marry such a neurotic, though talented woman. His affairs were de rigeuer with men of the time, women then got feminism..and Ted type balls were cut off
@Jim Newcombe yes this is three years old but I'm dying to know which poets you consider Great
love
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage--
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free--
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.
Thank you! I've always preferred to listen to new poetry or songs while following the written words - it must have taken you a while so I just wanted to say I appreciate it 🔥
I'm going to say my first impression is that Sylvia sounds much older than she really is. She sounds like a stuffy 60 year old lady. Reminds of a strict old teacher I used to have.
I thought the exact same thing! It surprised me.
I save this lady for the end of the world, Time is coming and time to know you for the end Sylvia, GOD SPEED
So gifted, so sad.
that is to real for me
Strange, distinct accent. I wonder where she got it from.
+Chris W New England mixed with time in England
Boston, MA accent
It is what was known as the Transatlantic accent. It was taught in schools in the early 20th century. That is why all the old movie actors spoke with a quasi-English quasi-American accent.
I feel this is the way english should be spoken. I love it!
I know right her voice fascinates me
Intense
✨🕊️✨🐝✨🕊️✨
Los tulipanes son demasiado excitables, aquí es invierno.
Mira qué blanco está todo, qué tranquilo, qué nevado.
Estoy aprendiendo tranquilidad, mintiendo solo en silencio
Mientras la luz miente en estas paredes blancas, esta cama, estas manos.
No soy nadie; No tengo nada que ver con explosiones.
He dado mi nombre y mi ropa de día a las enfermeras.
Y mi historia al anestesista y mi cuerpo a los cirujanos.
Me han apoyado la cabeza entre la almohada y el puño de sábana
Como un ojo entre dos párpados blancos que no se cerrará.
Estúpida pupila, tiene que asimilar todo.
Las enfermeras pasan y pasan, no son problema,
Pasan por el camino de las gaviotas tierra adentro con sus gorros blancos,
Haciendo cosas con sus manos, una igual que la otra,
Por lo tanto, es imposible saber cuántos hay.
Mi cuerpo es un guijarro para ellos, lo tienden como agua
Tiende a los guijarros que debe atropellar, alisándolos suavemente.
Me traen entumecimiento en sus agujas brillantes, me traen sueño.
Ahora que me he perdido, estoy harto de equipaje ...
Mi estuche de charol de noche como un pastillero negro,
Mi esposo y mi hijo sonríen fuera de la foto familiar;
Sus sonrisas se adhieren a mi piel, pequeños ganchos sonrientes.
He dejado pasar las cosas, un barco de carga de treinta años
tercamente aferrado a mi nombre y dirección.
Me han limpiado de mis asociaciones amorosas.
Asustado y desnudo en el carro verde con almohadas de plástico
Observé mi teaset, mis oficinas de lino, mis libros
Hundirse fuera de la vista, y el agua pasó por mi cabeza.
Soy una monja ahora, nunca he sido tan pura.
No quería flores, solo quería
Acostarse con las manos levantadas y estar completamente vacío.
Cuán libre es, no tienes idea de cuán libre--
La tranquilidad es tan grande que te aturde
Y no pide nada, una etiqueta con su nombre, algunas baratijas.
Es lo que los muertos cierran, finalmente; Los imagino
Cerrando la boca, como una tableta de comunión.
Los tulipanes son demasiado rojos en primer lugar, me duelen.
Incluso a través del papel de regalo podía escucharlos respirar
Ligeramente, a través de sus pañales blancos, como un bebé horrible.
Su enrojecimiento habla con mi herida, corresponde.
Son sutiles: parecen flotar, aunque me pesan,
Me molesta con sus lenguas repentinas y su color,
Una docena de plomadas de plomo rojo me rodean el cuello.
Nadie me miraba antes, ahora estoy vigilado.
Los tulipanes se vuelven hacia mí y la ventana detrás de mí.
Donde una vez al día la luz se ensancha lentamente y se diluye lentamente,
Y me veo a mí mismo, plano, ridículo, una sombra de papel cortado
Entre los ojos del sol y los ojos de los tulipanes,
Y no tengo cara, he querido borrarme.
Los tulipanes vivos se comen mi oxígeno.
Antes de que llegaran, el aire estaba lo suficientemente tranquilo.
Yendo y viniendo, respiración por respiración, sin ningún problema.
Luego los tulipanes lo llenaron como un ruido fuerte.
Ahora el aire se engancha y revuelve alrededor de ellos como un río
Enganches y remolinos rodean un motor rojo óxido hundido.
Concentraron mi atención, eso fue feliz
Jugar y descansar sin comprometerse.
Las paredes también parecen estar calentándose.
Los tulipanes deben estar tras las rejas como animales peligrosos;
Se abren como la boca de un gran gato africano,
Y soy consciente de mi corazón: se abre y se cierra
Su cuenco de flores rojas por puro amor hacia mí.
El agua que pruebo es cálida y salada, como el mar,
Y viene de un país lejano como el de la salud.
cuál es el significado del poema?
For mom.
the effect of being taken care of by nurses and of drugs on one's mind cannot be taken lightly.
sylvia plath, sad girl 4 lyfe.
Her voice definitely doesn't match her face. She sounds much older than her years.
Yes...very true
Why does she speak with a british accent? 🤨
😅wtf
I would like to hear Sylvia speak with a soft voice almost dreamlike. This doesn't do for me she sounds over dramatic.
It is her
It's good but It's not The Bard.
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage--
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free--
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.