The Starry Night

I haven't written in a while (seriously, more than a month? How did I let that happen?) since I've been super duper busy (no but really I've barely been home) so first let me tell you: It's great to see you! Not that I can actually see you, but you understand my point. How have you been? I want to hear all about your past few weeks!

So in the midst of all my rehearsals and papers, I've had the opportunity to read poems by Anne Sexton. If you've never heard of her or read her work, do it...just prepare yourself with food that makes you feel happy. She's pretty intense (and that's an understatement). 

Anne Sexton was born in the late 1920s up in Massachusetts. She went through high school and some of college before she eloped with a man who would later abuse her. The birth of her daughters as well as her modeling job led her to become extremely depressed, and her first attempt at suicide was in 1955. After a few more attempts, she succeeded in ending her life in 1972. Joyful, isn't it? But of course, the best poets always have some deep, secret past which leads them to write some of the most amazing poetry. Anne was no different.

Her poetry started as a form of therapy--her therapist recommended she write about what bothered her throughout the day. This has been common practice for many years and, as a student of this myself, it really does help. In Anne's case, it allowed her release her frustrations, worries, and desperation. Without this outlet, she most likely would have succeeded in killing herself years earlier. 

Anne is often referred to as a confessional poet, a poet whose work is autobiographical and focuses on taboo topics such as abortion, masturbation, and suicide. Other confessional poets were Sylvia Plath (a friend of Anne's), Robert Lowell, and Allen Ginsberg, and Anne is frequently ranked among them. This can be deceiving, however, as Anne said she did not necessarily write about her own life, All of her poems do have an air of truth about them. One of my favourite poems by Anne is "The Starry Night," and, even though I'll probably ramble on for four thousand words, I'll tell you why.

I've always been a fan of mixing genres of art together, and one of the best ways to do this is through ekphrastic poetry, poetry that focuses on the emotional and physical responses to another work of art. "The Starry Night" is, quite obviously, a response to Vincent Van Gogh's Starry Night. Van Gogh is probably my favourite painter because of his remarkable ability to translate the hell he lived in to the canvas. Sexton was another artist with that ability, and the combination of both definitely leads to interesting reactions!

The poem begins with an epigraph (like a preface, but usually a quote) by Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother. The epigraph, pasted below, relates art to religion. In a way, Sexton used this idea in all of her writing, frequently bringing up themes like religion. 

That does not keep me from having a terrible need of—shall I say the word—religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars.

While Van Gogh was painting Starry Night, he was in a mental institution. Throughout his life until his suicide, he suffered from bipolar disorder and depression. The chaos of his life was often reflected in his work, but in a beautiful way. Starry Night is no exception. The mixing of colours, especially blues and yellows, reveals the beauty Van Gogh was able to capture in a universe so much bigger than anyone expected. He did not see the black of the sky, but instead different blues that swirled into a complex, magical mass created by nature. Sexton was able to do this through her writing, as well.

Here's a copy of the poem for you. Don't read my analysis right after you finish the poem. Just sit, let it sink in for a bit, and then maybe read it again. Sometimes Sexton is best with your own response.

The town does not exist 

except where one black-haired tree slips 

up like a drowned woman into the hot sky. 

The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. 

Oh starry starry night! This is how 

I want to die. 

It moves. They are all alive. 

Even the moon bulges in its orange irons 

to push children, like a god, from its eye. 

The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars. 

Oh starry starry night! This is how

I want to die: 

into that rushing beast of the night, 

sucked up by that great dragon, to split 

from my life with no flag, 

no belly, 

no cry.

Intense, no? Take a breather if you have to (maybe eat some food. That always helps.).

What struck me most in this poem (beside the Van Gogh thing) was the personification and imagery. "Black-haired tree," "drowned woman," and the concept of the stars being alive make me squirm. And "The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars;" talk about chills! That alliteration combined with the image of darkness engulfing the stars gets me every time. 

And the refrain. Wow. Okay, Sexton. Tell us how you really feel, because both the diction and the link break don't make it obvious at all...

But can you imagine how she feels, looking up at the marvelous universe in front of her and not being able to join it? To be stuck on earth in a living human form when an afterlife in the stars sounds so much more enticing? Wouldn't it be easier to just leave the painful life she lives and join them?

I doubt there's a time anyone has not felt like this. Gazing up at the sky, how could you not? The universe is so vast and complex, and you're just a tiny human on a tiny planet in a tiny galaxy in a gargantuan universe. The insignificant feeling is unavoidable. Sexton creates a world to which it is easy to relate, as many people have felt the way the speaker does in this poem.

I think that's one of the reasons why I love Anne Sexton as much as I do--not because I've been reading her nonstop for the past two months (which I have been), not because she was a master at her art (which she was), but because she was able to write about her hellish life and still draw readers in. Each person takes something different away when they read a poem for the first time. The fact that Sexton could be so autobiographical and yet allow the reader to feel as if it is their own life is astounding. I only wish I could have that talent one day.