“Daddy” is one sick and twisted poem, but that’s a normal thing for Sylvia Plath. Plath is known for her confessional style of poetry. “Daddy” is a bit hard to understand without previous knowledge regarding Sylvia Plath’s past and her father. Sylvia Plath was born on October 27, 1932. Her mother, Aurelia Schober Plath, was a first-generation American of Austrian descent and her father, Otto Emile Plath, was an immigrant from Grabow, Poland, and was twenty-one years older than Sylvia’s mother. Otto Plath died on November 5, 1940 (when Sylvia was eight years old) of complications following the amputation of a leg due to diabetes mellitus (a treatable disease at the time). During Sylvia’s college years, she attempted suicide. Sylvia Plath later married British poet Ted Hughes, and produced two children with him, but separated in late 1962 after her husband’s affair with poet Assia Wevill came to light. She committed suicide on February 11, 1963, at the age of 30.
The subject of “Daddy” is not just Sylvia’s father but also her husband. Sylvia Plath lost her father at a tender age when she really adored him, but then later realized that her father was an oppressive man who did not treat his children or his wife very well. She compares his oppressiveness to that of a Nazi, an image used throughout the poem. Sylvia Plath conveys her intense emotions toward her father and estranged husband through vivid, often disturbing, imagery. She compares herself to a foot that lives in a shoe (line 2 – 3), being smothered by her father. She specifically gives writes that the shoe is black, a color often associated with death. The shoe metaphor continues when she compares her father to “the boot in the face” (line 49). The foot image is referred to again when she compares the cleft in her father’s chin to the cleft in the devil’s hooves (lines 53 – 54).
Sylvia’s father generally put his religion before his family, which greatly disturbed Sylvia both at the time of her father’s death and later on in her life. When she writes, “a bag full of God, ghastly statue with one grey toe,” (lines 8 – 9), she is describing her father as religion-centered (“bag full of God”), cold (“ghastly statue”) and she describes the leg amputation that killed him as “one grey toe.” The poem is also very autobiographical when the speaker talks about her attempted suicide. “At twenty I tried to die / And get back, back, back to you. … But they pulled me out of the sack / And they stuck me together with glue” (lines 58 – 62) is Sylvia Plath talking about her attempt to take her own life in her college days, and partially blaming it on her father.
She begins to speak about her husband in the second half of the poem. She realizes that her husband and her father were very similar people. She acknowledges that her husband and her father were very similar when she says, “And then I knew what to do / I made a model of you / a man in black with a Meinkampf look” (lines 63 – 65). Her husband is the “man in black with a Meinkampf look”. Her illustration of her husband also extends the Nazi metaphor present in most of the poem. When the tone of the poem changes to self-confident, she says, “If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two / The vampire who said he was you / And drank my blood for a year” (lines 71 – 73) , conveying her awareness of the similarities to the destructive behaviors of her father and her husband. The image of a vampire suggests draining; in Sylvia Plath’s case, her husband drained her of her life during their marriage.
Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the poem “Daddy” is Sylvia Plath’s repeated use of Nazi and Holocaust images. Her father was Polish, but not a Nazi, and her mother was part Jewish. Sylvia Plath’s comparisons of her father to a Nazi and her to a Jew show how strongly she felt oppressed and smothered by his rule of her life, even after his death. When she writes, “I thought every German was you.” (line 29), she is telling her inability to escape from her father despite him physically being gone. The meaning of the Nazi imagery in “Daddy” is for Sylvia Plath to describe just how much intense pain her father (and husband) put her through: pain similar to that felt by Jews during the Holocaust.
“Daddy” is irregular in rhyme. At times, it has a nursery rhyme-like quality to it, such as, “You do not do, you do not do / any more, black shoe” (lines1 – 2). The lack of regular rhyming pattern is similar to the lack of a father Sylvia Plath had much of her life: changing from a child-like innocence to a dark, hate-filled imagery. The poem is written in short stanzas of five lines each that are not very long or worded complicated.
The tone of the poem is Sylvia Plath’s outrage at her father and her husband for ruining her life. Sometimes this outrage becomes child-like, like a kid sobbing and smashing her fists on a table. This is evidenced by the use of the word “Daddy” and ending the poem with “Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I’m through.” When she speaks about her father in the poem, she reflects a child-like fear in her language, for example when she says, “I have always been scared of you” (line 41) and “So daddy, I’m finally through” (line 68).
The last two stanzas of the poem show Sylvia Plath overcoming her fear of her father and fear of her husband. “There’s a stake in your fat black heart / And the villagers never liked you” (lines 76 – 77) signify her newfound confidence to confront her father. She has overcome the memory of her father. Any self-doubt has been eliminated with the last line, “Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I’m through.” Sylvia Plath has finally conquered the fears of her father and her husband in the poem, but her suicide in real life begs to differ. (1039)
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Sunday, March 9, 2008
A shorter poem
This should fit on one screen:
You’re nasty and you’re loud,
You’re mean enough for two.
If I could be a cloud,
I’d rain all day on you.
I found this in my ten-year-old brother's English book.
You’re nasty and you’re loud,
You’re mean enough for two.
If I could be a cloud,
I’d rain all day on you.
I found this in my ten-year-old brother's English book.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Bustin' out some rhymes
"The Trapeze Swinger" - Iron and Wine
Please, remember me, happily,
by the rosebush laughing
with bruises on my chin, the time when
we counted every black car passing
your house beneath the hill, and up until
someone caught us in the kitchen
with maps, a mountain range, a piggy bank
a vision too removed to mention
But please remember me, fondly,
i heard from someone you're still pretty
and then they went on to say that the Pearly Gates
have such eloquent graffiti
like: “we'll meet again” and “fuck the Man”
and “tell my mother not to worry”
and angels with their great handshakes
but always done in such a hurry
and please remember me, at Halloween
making fools of all the neighbors
our faces painted white, by midnight
we'd forgotten one another
and when the morning came I was ashamed
only now it seems so silly
that season left the world and then returned
and now you're lit up by the city
so please remember me, mistakenly
in the window of the tallest tower
call, then pass us by, but much too high
to see the empty road at happy hour
gleam and resonate just like the gates
around the Holy Kingdom
with words like: “lost and found” and “don't look down”
and “someone save temptation”
and please remember me, as in the dream
we had as rug-burned babies
among the fallen trees and fast asleep
beside the lions and the ladies
that called you what you like and even might
give a gift for your behavior:
a fleeting chance to see a trapeze-
swinger high as any savior
but please remember me, my misery
and how it lost me all i wanted
those dogs that love the rain, and chasin' trains
the colored birds above there runnin'
in circles round the well, and where it spells
on the wall behind St. Peter
so bright on cinder gray in spray paint:
“who the hell can see forever?”
and please remember me, seldomly
in the car behind the carnival
my hand between your knees, you turn from me
and said the trapeze act was wonderful
but never meant to last, the clowns that passed
saw me just come up with anger
when it filled with circus dogs, the parking lot
had an element of danger
so please remember me, finally
and all my uphill clawing
my dear, but if i make the Pearly Gates
i’ll do my best to make a drawing
of God and Lucifer, a boy and girl
an angel kissin’ on a sinner
a monkey and a man, a marching band
all around the frightened trapeze-swinger
Please, remember me, happily,
by the rosebush laughing
with bruises on my chin, the time when
we counted every black car passing
your house beneath the hill, and up until
someone caught us in the kitchen
with maps, a mountain range, a piggy bank
a vision too removed to mention
But please remember me, fondly,
i heard from someone you're still pretty
and then they went on to say that the Pearly Gates
have such eloquent graffiti
like: “we'll meet again” and “fuck the Man”
and “tell my mother not to worry”
and angels with their great handshakes
but always done in such a hurry
and please remember me, at Halloween
making fools of all the neighbors
our faces painted white, by midnight
we'd forgotten one another
and when the morning came I was ashamed
only now it seems so silly
that season left the world and then returned
and now you're lit up by the city
so please remember me, mistakenly
in the window of the tallest tower
call, then pass us by, but much too high
to see the empty road at happy hour
gleam and resonate just like the gates
around the Holy Kingdom
with words like: “lost and found” and “don't look down”
and “someone save temptation”
and please remember me, as in the dream
we had as rug-burned babies
among the fallen trees and fast asleep
beside the lions and the ladies
that called you what you like and even might
give a gift for your behavior:
a fleeting chance to see a trapeze-
swinger high as any savior
but please remember me, my misery
and how it lost me all i wanted
those dogs that love the rain, and chasin' trains
the colored birds above there runnin'
in circles round the well, and where it spells
on the wall behind St. Peter
so bright on cinder gray in spray paint:
“who the hell can see forever?”
and please remember me, seldomly
in the car behind the carnival
my hand between your knees, you turn from me
and said the trapeze act was wonderful
but never meant to last, the clowns that passed
saw me just come up with anger
when it filled with circus dogs, the parking lot
had an element of danger
so please remember me, finally
and all my uphill clawing
my dear, but if i make the Pearly Gates
i’ll do my best to make a drawing
of God and Lucifer, a boy and girl
an angel kissin’ on a sinner
a monkey and a man, a marching band
all around the frightened trapeze-swinger
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Hamlet, Gertrude, and a Dead Polonius or What's the happy haps in the Queen's crib.
My Blogger won't let me bold or change colors. Someone uninstalled Firefox on my computer. I shall email this to you, Mr. C.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Ismene and Scooby Snacks
So, Oedipus. Man, that's just gross. And I can't believe it took him that long to figure it out. I mean, I could never solve the mysteries on "Scooby Doo", but I think I would have noticed after ten years that I was banging my mom. I would have figured out the prophecy was about me from some basic deduction, perhaps with a Sherlock Holmes cap. Like, the chick I was procreating with looked a lot like me, my kids had webbed feet, this prophecy keeps coming back to haunt me, foreshadowing music plays in the background every time this guy who kills his father and marries his mom is mentioned, etc. Maybe the gang in the Mystery Machine and I have an advantage over Oedipus in that we both have Scooby snacks. Mine come in the form of S'Mores Poptarts, which I eat about every day in your class, Mr. C.
My first thoughts about Antigone actually have to do with her sister, Ismene. Now I've told my opinion about Ismene to just about everyone, from Mr. Greenlee to Greg. It's written all over the margins in my English book. Ismene is a tool. If Ismene were alive today and still ticking me off as she did some 3000 years ago (or whatever, I don't really remember Civ I other than Mr. Phillips introduced me to the awesomeness that is Metallica), I would put this on her locker:
Urban dictionary defines "tool" as, "someone who tries too hard. a poser. one of those chicks who holds the sign saying 'Carson Daly is Hot.' the &$%#@! who goes to a rock show because they heard one of the songs on the radio or mtv. or someone who insists on wearing velour sweat suits. Avril Lavigne," with the example sentence reading, "Jane is a tool because she dresses like Avril Lavigne while listening to New Found Glory and Dashboard Confessional just because Carson Daly told her to." Ismene at first doesn't help Antigone because she doesn't have the guts to bury her brother (it seems that Antigone inherited the guts in this family—perhaps something weird from the incest). But then, when Antigone is getting all this press coverage for burying her brother, Ismene bursts into the palace and yells (paraphrased), "I DID IT TOO!" to which Antigone responds (paraphrased), "Dude, you poser." Ismene represents the people who jump on bandwagons. She represents everyone who enjoyed the movie 'Napoleon Dynamite'.
But seriously, why do I despise Ismene, the tool, so much? Well, Antigone first approaches her about the burying Polynices to the person she trusts most: her beloved sister. Her sister thinks it's a swell idea, but doesn't have the courage to go forth with Antigone. Ouch to the family bond. This reminds me of a quote from one of my favorite movies of all time, Batman Begins, when Henri Ducard proclaims, "The training is nothing! The will is everything! The will to act." Then he beats up the future Batman in the wilderness of Tibet. What I'm trying to say here is Ismene's good intentions but lack of willpower to follow through with them make her worse than someone who lacked the good intentions at all. And she only voices her opinion on the matter after Antigone gets lots of attention about it. Ismene is an attention-seeking tool who might have become that way through the weird incest thing her parents had going on.
I was first a bit weirded out by Haemon because he was Antigone's cousin and they were going to be married. Thank goodness that's only legal in like West Virginia and weird parts of Utah. But then I realized he was okay. It was a bit of a low blow on Creon's part to be dissing Haemon's manliness. Even if Antigone wears the pants in the relationship. But Haemon was truly digging Antigone's view on the dead brother matter. So hard to find that in a guy.
In other news, I went to a comic book convention last weekend. That is much cooler than it sounds. However, I am troubled that I need to be eighteen years old to join the Rebel Alliance. Also, I read some excellent graphic novels. Plus I met the original Chewbacca. Now I can play "Let It Be" on my mandolin. I still have yet to have a proper lesson on the bizarre instrument, but teaching myself is going rather well. I sold my soul to Mr. Burns and might never get it back. Because, after the musical, I'm directing a one-act. My play is to be determined, but it will be awesome. Everyone should go see it. April 24th, guys. SCHOOL SPIRIT! It should be like Game Day, only more intentionally funny. Also, I've heard the musical is going to be awesome, mostly because I talk with a Brooklyn accent and Jimmy plays himself in ten years. Contrary to what you may think, "Bye Bye Birdie!" is not about an aviary or badminton. It is about girls swooning over Eric.
And now I'm going to roll bowling balls down Camelback Mountain and into my neighbor's pool. (830)
My first thoughts about Antigone actually have to do with her sister, Ismene. Now I've told my opinion about Ismene to just about everyone, from Mr. Greenlee to Greg. It's written all over the margins in my English book. Ismene is a tool. If Ismene were alive today and still ticking me off as she did some 3000 years ago (or whatever, I don't really remember Civ I other than Mr. Phillips introduced me to the awesomeness that is Metallica), I would put this on her locker:
Urban dictionary defines "tool" as, "someone who tries too hard. a poser. one of those chicks who holds the sign saying 'Carson Daly is Hot.' the &$%#@! who goes to a rock show because they heard one of the songs on the radio or mtv. or someone who insists on wearing velour sweat suits. Avril Lavigne," with the example sentence reading, "Jane is a tool because she dresses like Avril Lavigne while listening to New Found Glory and Dashboard Confessional just because Carson Daly told her to." Ismene at first doesn't help Antigone because she doesn't have the guts to bury her brother (it seems that Antigone inherited the guts in this family—perhaps something weird from the incest). But then, when Antigone is getting all this press coverage for burying her brother, Ismene bursts into the palace and yells (paraphrased), "I DID IT TOO!" to which Antigone responds (paraphrased), "Dude, you poser." Ismene represents the people who jump on bandwagons. She represents everyone who enjoyed the movie 'Napoleon Dynamite'.
But seriously, why do I despise Ismene, the tool, so much? Well, Antigone first approaches her about the burying Polynices to the person she trusts most: her beloved sister. Her sister thinks it's a swell idea, but doesn't have the courage to go forth with Antigone. Ouch to the family bond. This reminds me of a quote from one of my favorite movies of all time, Batman Begins, when Henri Ducard proclaims, "The training is nothing! The will is everything! The will to act." Then he beats up the future Batman in the wilderness of Tibet. What I'm trying to say here is Ismene's good intentions but lack of willpower to follow through with them make her worse than someone who lacked the good intentions at all. And she only voices her opinion on the matter after Antigone gets lots of attention about it. Ismene is an attention-seeking tool who might have become that way through the weird incest thing her parents had going on.
I was first a bit weirded out by Haemon because he was Antigone's cousin and they were going to be married. Thank goodness that's only legal in like West Virginia and weird parts of Utah. But then I realized he was okay. It was a bit of a low blow on Creon's part to be dissing Haemon's manliness. Even if Antigone wears the pants in the relationship. But Haemon was truly digging Antigone's view on the dead brother matter. So hard to find that in a guy.
In other news, I went to a comic book convention last weekend. That is much cooler than it sounds. However, I am troubled that I need to be eighteen years old to join the Rebel Alliance. Also, I read some excellent graphic novels. Plus I met the original Chewbacca. Now I can play "Let It Be" on my mandolin. I still have yet to have a proper lesson on the bizarre instrument, but teaching myself is going rather well. I sold my soul to Mr. Burns and might never get it back. Because, after the musical, I'm directing a one-act. My play is to be determined, but it will be awesome. Everyone should go see it. April 24th, guys. SCHOOL SPIRIT! It should be like Game Day, only more intentionally funny. Also, I've heard the musical is going to be awesome, mostly because I talk with a Brooklyn accent and Jimmy plays himself in ten years. Contrary to what you may think, "Bye Bye Birdie!" is not about an aviary or badminton. It is about girls swooning over Eric.
And now I'm going to roll bowling balls down Camelback Mountain and into my neighbor's pool. (830)
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Knowing the Meaning of Life a Little Too Late
Well. Now that I'm done riding off the high that is a better-than-even-I-expected senior speech, here we are back in the oft-forgotten world of English blogs. Actually, before I get ranting, I would like to note one thing. Having a good senior speech is like your second birthday of the year. Seriously, with everyone congratulating you, and the balloons, and the free food (Deepa's mother makes some wicked awesome chicken curry), and the accolades, who wouldn't feel as loved as you are on your birthday? It's really awesome.
So, "The Death of Ivan Iliych". What a downer. Now, I know Ivan can be compared to Christ, especially when this was written in Tolstoy's "Holy cow, Christianity!" phase. But I see Ivan as more of a Job guy. Ivan had a good life. Maybe Job was a nicer guy, but Ivan wasn't exactly a terrible enemy. Suddenly, he has all of this suffering going on in his life, and the only thing he really did wrong was have an unextraordinary life. That's what a lot of us have. I found the novella particularly sad when, towards the very end of his life, Ivan no longer hates his family, but feels sorry for them, because he found true joy and they'll always live their materialistic lives. But before he can share this joy, he dies. Perhaps he dies from his first true moment of unselfish love.
Other than writing my college essays, I am now spending a considerable amount of time teaching myself the mandolin, a strange gift I gave myself this Christmas. It's really a fun instrument. Plus, the mandolin has the same strings as the violin—in fact, it's like the violin, but without a bow. The notes are in pretty much the same place. I can play two songs right now: "You Are My Sunshine" and the Beatles's "All My Loving". This repretoire will expand once I get actual music books and mandolin lessons. My ultimate fantasy is being able to bring my mandolin to school and jam during my frees. We'll see.
(345)
So, "The Death of Ivan Iliych". What a downer. Now, I know Ivan can be compared to Christ, especially when this was written in Tolstoy's "Holy cow, Christianity!" phase. But I see Ivan as more of a Job guy. Ivan had a good life. Maybe Job was a nicer guy, but Ivan wasn't exactly a terrible enemy. Suddenly, he has all of this suffering going on in his life, and the only thing he really did wrong was have an unextraordinary life. That's what a lot of us have. I found the novella particularly sad when, towards the very end of his life, Ivan no longer hates his family, but feels sorry for them, because he found true joy and they'll always live their materialistic lives. But before he can share this joy, he dies. Perhaps he dies from his first true moment of unselfish love.
Other than writing my college essays, I am now spending a considerable amount of time teaching myself the mandolin, a strange gift I gave myself this Christmas. It's really a fun instrument. Plus, the mandolin has the same strings as the violin—in fact, it's like the violin, but without a bow. The notes are in pretty much the same place. I can play two songs right now: "You Are My Sunshine" and the Beatles's "All My Loving". This repretoire will expand once I get actual music books and mandolin lessons. My ultimate fantasy is being able to bring my mandolin to school and jam during my frees. We'll see.
(345)
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